


One Year More

by slytherintbh



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Complicated Relationships, F/F, Fantine Lives, Flashbacks, Graphic Depictions of Feelings, Identity Issues, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Madeleine Era, Minor Character Death, Montreuil-sur-Mer, Multi, Roman Catholicism, Semi Fix-It, Slow Burn, Unwilling Courtship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 14:24:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 57,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12134403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherintbh/pseuds/slytherintbh
Summary: “Ah, but monsieur, I have upset you. I should not have said this.” Javert shook his head, and gave another bark of laughter. “It matters not. Valjean is dead. A year since.”The year is 1824 when Inspector Javert arrives in Montreuil-sur-mer. His absence in the town has given Madeleine unprecedented freedom and the ability to offer friendship in a way that he never could before. It is simply unfortunate that Jean Madeleine is not terribly well practised in the art of friendship, and that his existence as an alias should chafe so terribly upon his shoulders.





	1. A Belated Deliverance

**Author's Note:**

> _Alternatively titled:_ In which Jean Madeleine is very far from being a saint but not for want of trying.

Everything was pleasant, and Jean Madeleine was content.

The mayor of Montreuil-sur-mer lived a simple but joyful life. Having worked in the eye of society for 9 years, he was an established and esteemed man who was subject to both gossip and praise and bore them both with the same amused humility. Accusations of being a politician or a saint drew a half-smile to his lips, for he was neither, and his solitary nature could only exacerbate these claims. He was a man, and a good one, and he gave charity as easily as he breathed. It delighted him.

As of late, Madeleine had even greater reason for joy. Fantine, a suffering mother, had come into his care and brought with her a child. Cosette (or Euphrasie, as she was sometimes called) had been difficult to pry from the miserly grasp of the Thenardiers but oh – once she had! The little girl awoke a love in him so strong that he had gifted her recovering mother with a house near his own and a sum of money that exceeded his usual alms, 20000 francs of his safely guarded means. Often, he would walk with the child to the school and listen to her chatter, clutching her precious Catherine in one hand as Madeleine took the other. Naturally, this created a stir of interest as to whether the child was his; Fantine denied it as she recovered, and was thoroughly ignored.

Madeleine did not care. To be the father of such a sweet, innocent child would be a blessing.

With each day, the spectre of Valjean loomed less and less. While Madeleine still had to hide the scars on his torso and limp forever imprinted onto his gait, they seemed to belong to another man, another time entirely. When he saw the grateful smile of those he helped, or felt the weight of Cosette on his shoulders as he carried her through the streets, the memories of Toulon were little more than dreams. He was in heaven, and nothing bothered him.

Waking on a quiet December morning in 1824, Madeleine was quite at peace. Much snow had fallen overnight, setting the town at rest, instructing the mayor to go and give alms to those out in the cold. He had requested of Fantine only that she prepare blankets for the poor, being still in bed and wanting work to do. Cosette would carry the finished pieces to Madeleine’s small lodgings and they would wash them in boiling water together as the little girl lamented how she had to be kept from her mother to avoid illness. The most recent stack of blankets had spent the night drying before the fire, and Madeleine wasted no time in dressing in his thick woollen cloak and going out into the snow.

The sun had not yet risen and the town was bathed in the soft darkness before dawn. Not a sound could be heard beside the gentle rush of the thick falling snow; there could be no work today, for the women’s fingers would freeze and the men’s gloves were too clumsy. Let them have a deserved day of rest. They knew the honour of work.

Madeleine walked briskly to the outskirts of town.

The poor were huddled in the tunnels, hidden in doorways, gamins hopping through the drift with letters to deliver. With each person he came across, Madeleine would offer money and one of the blankets. After a long and brutal November, many already owned one, but he would swap them and take those that were sodden and dirty and clean them. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but it saved a few lives every year.

“Thank you, monsieur,” an elderly woman muttered, taking an offering from his hands. “God’s blessings on you.”

“And on you,” he replied. As he rose, a great clattering of hooves became audible, horses running along the cobbles of the dock. _How strange,_ Madeleine thought. _To be riding at this hour. What man would choose to travel in these conditions?_

His question was quickly answered. A single horse rounded the corner to where he stood, bearing a lone rider clad in black. Their face was shaded by a top hat, figure blurred by the snow as it whipped around the animal. Having seen the mayor standing in the chill, the rider slowed to a trot and stopped at his side.

“What brings you outside at this hour?” the stranger asked, voice sharp and impolite. “An odd time to be in the snow, monsieur.” The implication of improper behaviours laced his words.

Madeleine struggled to see the man’s features, obscured as they were. “I am the mayor of this town,” he replied, a touch coldly. “It is my business to be out when I am needed.”

His words had an immediate effect upon the stranger, who stiffened with embarrassment. “My apologies, Monsieur le maire. It is good that I have stumbled upon you, good indeed – ah, but we should speak indoors. I have business with you.”

“Certainly,” Madeleine said, bowing slightly. “My offices aren’t too far from here. If you would follow me – I can keep up with you at a trot.”

“Thank you, Monsieur.” At that, the stranger clicked his heels and his horse shifted uncomfortably. Following Madeleine’s long strides, they disappeared between the buildings. “An odd path, this,” he remarked, noting the squalor of the alleyways.

“I know my town. This is the fastest path, and we do not wish to be in the snow for any longer than we must. Indeed, you must be frozen from your travels. Where have you come from, Monsieur?”

“Paris. I have been delayed enough on my journey. I do not mind the cold so much, but it would be good to get the horse to a stable.”

One such stable sat near enough to the factory, so they tethered the animal there and Madeleine paid the stableboy 5 francs to give it care and shelter. Together, he and the newcomer struggled against the growing snowstorm and clambered up the steps of the warehouse, the mayor worrying silently about this ‘business’ that the man had spoken of. Indeed, Madeleine did not look to see whether he was following, listening only to the click of the man’s shoes against the floors as they obediently copied his own.

Opening the door with some relief, Madeleine immediately crossed the room to start a fire. It soothed him some to see the flames roar into being, and he clapped his hands together, turning to greet his visitor with a smile. “So, monsieur, what brings you to Montreuil –“

It was Javert.

He had removed his hat and was brushing the snow away, sharp features immediately recognisable in the yellow light. It had been some years since Valjean had seen him in the bagne and Javert had gained severe lines at the corners of his eyes and along his forehead. Beyond that the man was unchanged – his short black hair and impeccably cropped whiskers gave the immediate impression of authority. Ice blue eyes scrutinised the room with terrifying intelligence. Madeleine quickly stood and schooled his expression into a benevolent mask.

“Did you not receive the letter from Paris, Monsieur le maire? _Non_ , it would seem not, given the weather. I am Inspector Javert, and I have been stationed here by the prefecture, providing it is to your liking.” Javert bowed deeply, and attempted a smile as he stood back to attention. “It is an honour to meet you, Monsieur, although I would prefer for it not to have been in such circumstances.”

Shaking off his nerves, Madeleine walked to the man and extended a hand, which Javert took. “And you, Monsieur l’inspecteur. It is indeed an odd way to meet, but I hope we shall work well together in the future.”

Javert blanched. “Monsieur le maire, but you must call me Javert.”

“Well then, you must call me Monsieur Madeleine. Come, sit with me and warm by the fire. Do you drink coffee, Javert?”

“It is not a luxury I would normally afford myself, but it is pleasant enough. If you are offering, Monsieur le maire, I will gladly accept.” Awkwardly, Javert shrugged off his imposing overcoat and stalked over to the fireplace, watching as Madeleine pushed two simple chairs towards the grate.

“Monsieur _Madeleine_ ,” the mayor reiterated, aware that it would likely go ignored. He busied himself with preparing the coffee, boiling water over the fire and musing over the simplicity of his cups. By the time the drink was ready, Javert had coloured pleasantly from the warmth of the flames. Madeleine took a moment to pause as the scent of coffee burnt pleasantly in the air. _He does not seem to recognise me_ , he thought, and took a deep breath. _I am much changed. I speak well, dress well enough, I am a magistrate. I must remember that._

Taking his own seat, he passed Javert his coffee, and watched as the inspector warmed his long fingers against the china. “Thank you, Monsieur,” he muttered, and took a sip. “It is very good.”

“You are quite welcome.”

Javert’s free hand dipped into his waistcoat and produced a letter from within. “For you, Monsieur le maire. I had supposed that the letter might not reach you, so I asked for a second.”

Resting his drink on the floor, Madeleine opened the envelope and flattened out the page from inside. It was a short missive, touching lightly upon the excellence of the inspector and the value of his placement in Montreuil-sur-mer. It was signed by many fine names, including that of his patron, Chabouilllet.

“I trust it is to your liking, Monsieur le maire?”

“Quite,” Madeleine replied, swapping the letter for his drink. “Your recommendations glow, Inspector. It does you credit.”

“ _Merci_ , Monsieur le maire. Indeed, your reputation precedes you, monsieur. Even in Paris they speak of the good mayor of Montreuil, a fine man, a philanthropist who refused the Légion d'Honneur. I admit, I was quite curious to meet you.”

“It’s terrible flattery.” With an embarrassed smile, Madeleine observed Javert discreetly. The inspector was admiring the fire, back astonishingly flat against the back of the chair, yet seemingly relaxed. _Such an odd turn of fate,_ Madeleine mused. _God is surely having a joke at my expense._ He sighed. “Tell me, Javert, how did it come to be that you were riding at such an hour, in this weather? It is hardly conducive to long distance travel.”

“Well, Monsieur, I have been riding for a few days. It would have been only two days journey, but the snowfall was such that I had to spend a day resting in Amiens. I spent a few hours sleeping last night at a nearby inn – I would have waited until the morning to leave, only I suspected that the snow would worsen. And so it has.“ He took a long pull from his cup. “The cold is not so terrible. After the streets of Paris, it seems a mere trifle.”

“You worked in Paris?”

“Only for a short while. My patron thought it more appropriate that I be stationed in a smaller town, before moving to the capital proper. I quite agree.”

“Interesting.” So, Javert had lived in Paris. A city of crime, and yet, so much kinder than Toulon! Lost a moment in the thought, Madeleine failed to notice the curious gaze of the inspector.

“If I may be so impertinent as to ask, Monsieur le maire, why were you on the outskirts of town at this time? It is a breeding ground for crime, for poverty, surely not a place for a magistrate and an honourable man.”

“Ah.” Madeleine flushed with anxiety. “I have a habit of distributing blankets to the poor during the winter. It is a harsh season; many die. It is easier to go out in the mornings, when the streets are empty and I am not so busy.”

Javert held his cup up to his mouth, squinting. “So, the stories are true…” he muttered. “But monsieur,” he laughed. “It is an odd thing. You remind me of a man.”

Madeleine froze. “Indeed?”

“I hope you do not find it rude for me to say so. It is quite odd.” Icy eyes pierced through Madeleine, and for a second, it seemed that his disguise had quite fallen away. “A man I knew in the Bagne de Toulon, a man who broke his parole. You look so much like him. He was strong – the strongest man I had ever known. They called him _Jean le Cric_ , and it was an appropriate nickname indeed.”

“Is that so?” Madeleine sounded faint even to himself, and he winced, fear curling cold inside his stomach.

“Ah, but monsieur, I have upset you. I should not have said this.” Javert shook his head, and gave another bark of laughter. “It matters not. Valjean is dead. A year since.”

An immediate confusion grabbed Madeleine, and he stared into the fire. Dead? Valjean – dead? It seemed nonsensical, for _Javert_ to be saying this to Valjean himself. How could this be? _There is something awry here,_ Madeleine thought, heart shuddering. “You must tell me more of this, this Valjean,’ he said. “You have piqued my curiosity, inspector.”

 “Oh? The story is quite simple. While I was stationed in Paris, I was called to Arras to act as a witness in court. They had apprehended a man, one ‘Champmathieu’ as he called himself. A foolish moniker for a foolish man. He had been caught stealing cider apples, and it would have been as simple as that, if another man hadn’t recognised him as Jean Valjean. Indeed, many others did also. It all made sense – he had been a tree pruner in Faverolles, was of the age Valjean had been, had the same build. The same man. The breaking of his parole and the crimes committed since made him a recidivist, and he was tried thus. I recognised him as soon as I saw him.” Here, Javert paused, smiling with some satisfaction. “The trial was impossibly simple. He was sentenced to the guillotine, and, as I understand it, was executed that very week. He denied his identity until the end.”

As he had many times in his life, Valjean – and it was Valjean who felt it, not Madeleine – suffered from a great rush of shock and disbelief as he heard the news. Once more, his life was upturned and he trembled. “An odd coincidence,” he muttered. “A sad tale, Inspector. To take a man to the guillotine for some apples.”

“I see you are one of those men who disagree with the practice,” Javert replied, derision held back by his perfect politeness. “Valjean also stole from a bishop and a boy, if I remember correctly, immediately after he was released. It was not right that he be let out into society, Monsieur le maire.”

“I suppose you are correct.” A great sorrow had taken root in Madeleine’s heart, to think of the man who had died in his stead without his knowing it. “It is not a thing that we think of much in Montreuil-sur-mer.”

“The crime rates do you a credit, Monsieur. I have never seen them so low in a town of this size.” Inclining his head slightly, Javert allowed his cup to rest on the floor and gathered his coat and hat into his arms. “But – pardon, Monsieur – I must report to the station and see that they know of my arrival. Thank you very much for the coffee, and for the fire.”

“You are quite welcome, Inspector Javert.”

Rising to his towering height, Javert cocked his head to one side and smirked. “Such a remarkable resemblance… ah, you must ignore me, Monsieur le maire. You are a fine man, and he a worthless crook. You could not be more different.” He bowed. “I shall show myself out. _Au revoir,_ Monsieur le maire.”  

“ _Adieu_ ,” Madeleine replied, barely noticing what he had said. Thankfully, Javert had already stalked out of the room, setting his hat firmly atop his head.

For a second he waited, straining to hear Javert’s footsteps dying away and the shutting of the warehouse door. Then he sank to his knees in front of the fire and sobbed until his lungs burned from the exertion, the calm gaze of his crucifix bearing witness. Valjean’s sins – his many, many sins, his crimes – none of them compared to this. That a man had gone to the gallows bearing his name, bearing his crimes, like Jesus to Golgotha! It appalled him. It sickened him to his core and he wept for the man. Champmatheiu. What an unlucky soul to have borne his face…

“Oh, Lord,” he croaked. “Oh, Lord, would that I had known! I would have taken his place, even…”

Never had the guillotine scared him. The bagne did, because he knew it so intimately, the throttling chokehold of the iron collar around his foot. But the guillotine he’d never even thought of, although perhaps he should, as a recidivist. To put your head in the block, secured, and listen to the rush of the blade as it came towards you –

It took all of Valjean’s strength of will not to be sick.

“I must double my efforts,” he muttered. “Double them, because now there are two men who have saved me, the bishop and this man with my face. I must mourn, yes, after Christmas, so that Javert does not suspect.” He looked into the face of the crucifix. “I cannot let his death be in vain.”

Composing himself, he doused the fire and wrote a few notices to pin to the warehouse doors, announcing it shut.

Hobbling through the drift, he caught sight of Javert departing the station and tipped his hat to him; Javert tipped his by way of reply. The walk home was a short one, and the dawn only just breaking, but Cosette was already awake and waiting for him when he returned.

“ _Père_  Madeleine!” The small girl tried and failed to walk through the thick layer of snow, door of the house open and Fantine peering meekly through the gap.

“My child!” He gathered Cosette up into his arms and laughed, breaths escaping in plumes. “Oh, dearest Cosette, you should not be out here, you will catch a cold.”

“It is so pretty though, papa!”

His heart burst at hearing her call him such, as it always did. Silently, he thanked Champmathieu for his unwitting sacrifice as he smiled at the sweet child in his arms. Cosette had grown much in the year, hair turning from dirtied string to fine fair locks not unlike her mother’s. While she was not exactly pretty, her smile was devastating in its honesty, and Madeleine adored her like no other. “Come, child,” he laughed. “We must let your mother sleep some more. Soon she shall be well, and we shall all enjoy the winter, but first the tuberculosis must pass.”

She was almost certainly better, by now. The doctor had suggested that the illness would not spread by her coughs, and so Cosette lived with her mother, although she had for a time stayed with Madeleine. Gratefully, Fantine offered a modest wave and shut the door. Madeleine walked into his own house and watched as Cosette immediately located Catherine. The doll lived beneath a plain wooden set of drawers.

“I do not know why you keep her here,” he mused.

“It is because she is my neighbour,” Cosette answered. “It makes her more special, because then I can visit her, papa.”

“Okay. I suppose I see what you mean.”

“Will you be here all day, papa?”

“Is the factory closed? Yes, my child, it is far too cold for work today.”

“Good!” With the air of a child who has made up their mind, Cosette dug through his personal bookshelf and retrieved a book of letters. “You can help me read. Mama is good at it, when she is awake, and my teachers like my work very much.”

Madeleine acquiesced with a nod of the head. “As you wish.” They sat and read together, and while Madeleine basked in her company, the image of the guillotine would not dispel from his minds eye.

*

Christmas arrived with surprising quickness, as it is wont to do.

One month was not long enough for Madeleine to grow used to Javert prowling about the town, and it certainly was not long enough for Valjean to forget Champmatheiu. He had spent hours scouring newspapers and found that the story was true. A man had been tried under the name of Jean Valjean; he had been found guilty and sent to Toulon for execution. In the excitement of rescuing Cosette, Madeleine had failed to read a single letter of a newspaper. By the time he was back from Montfermeil and had fixed his debts to Fantine, the deed was already done. No paper had written of it since.

The agonising guilt that he suffered had to be suppressed. It was his fault, as he had chosen to break parole. However, he reasoned, there was no way he could have known that a man would pay for it with his life. Far better to make something of his freedom than to wallow in misery.

So, he did.

Christmas Eve was as bright and beautiful as it could possibly be.

Merry women had decked the town with little ribbons and cuttings of mistletoe, even going so far as to gift the outside of the factory with neatly woven wreaths. The gentle precipitation of white had continued throughout December, pausing for a few days and allowing a moment of respite for the freezing poor, then returning in excited flurries. Madeleine had grown so concerned for the wellbeing of his townspeople that he had opened up the factory floor to serve as a makeshift dormitory. In order to keep the peace, he had visited the police station and requested an audience with the inspector.

“A curious idea,” Javert had mused, failing to hide the thick doubt in his expression. “I suppose it could be of a benefit, although you are too kind to them, Monsieur le maire. You cannot account for the actions of the criminal, nor for the situation people put themselves in.”

“It is Christmas,” Madeleine remarked, noting the lack of decoration in Javert’s new office. It was scarcely even changed from before save for the papers sat in ordered stacks on every surface. “Come, Javert. We must be kind in this season, of all times.”

“I did not say I would not do it, Monsieur. A few officers can be spared to keep watch.” Chastised, Javert stood from his desk chair. “I myself, if it suits you.”

“So long as they are comfortable,” Madeleine replied, ignoring the injured pride of the Inspector.

For his pride was so easily wounded. Valjean had angered the man enough in the bagne to know that his strength had occasionally conflicted Javert, who did not like to be lesser in any way to the slaves. Paris had tempered him. He was not quite the boyish hound of Toulon, and yet… the same impassive, calculating mouth curled itself over polite phrases. Any expression of opinion was apologised for, especially as it was never to Madeleine’s liking. He could only imagine what Javert thought of the poor in the town. Surely, in his eyes, the men stricken to poverty were idle, the women base whores. Javert would never say it outright, but it glimmered in his eyes.

Regardless of the inspector’s opinions, they would sleep with a roof over their heads this Christmas. Perhaps food would be distributed. Madeleine could afford it.

On the morning of Christmas Eve he awoke early as always, a habit from Toulon that he had yet to shake. He visited the factory and found many persons sleeping on blankets on the floor, warehouse warmed by the presence of so many bodies. Men slept in one half of the factory, women on the other, and families together. A policeman had been stationed by every door and they nodded warmly to Madeleine as he walked in.

“Is all well?” he asked Jerome, the nearest officer.

“Not a peep of trouble,” Jerome replied. “I think they are too grateful to be warm to cause any issues, Monsieur Madeleine.”

“As I had hoped. And what is prepared for tomorrow? I had considered paying the gamins to keep watch, so that you may enjoy time with family. The boys will be dutiful.”

“Monsieur L’Inspecteur has already given us a timetable.” Jerome shuffled uncomfortably against the wall. “I shall mention it to him.”

*

“What shall we do tomorrow, papa?”

Sitting at Fantine’s bedside, Madeleine bounced Cosette absentmindedly on one knee. The girl was smoothing out her Christmas dress with delight. It was a fine little thing, with buttons down the front and a pleated pink skirt, expensive enough to border on bourgeois.

“Well, my sweet, we will go to mass tonight, to welcome the birth of our Lord. St Nicholas will leave you a gift while you are sleeping, and we will have a fine dinner, you and your mother and me. Then, the Christmas ball! Ah, you will love it all, Cosette, and you shall look so sweet.” Madeleine offered a hand to Fantine. “Next year, you must come with us, Madame.”

In the winter light, Fantine was washed out to white, save for the blush on her cheeks. Much as Madeleine could not remember her prior to saving her from prison, it was evident that she had been a beauty. Once-long golden hair now sat around her shoulders. While her illness had stolen so much of her vitality, the presence of Cosette gave Fantine strength, and the love in her expression made her radiant.

“I am not much made for that now, good Monsieur.”

“Nonsense, your loveliness returns already. You shall come to the ball with Cosette and myself. A year is not so long away, after all.”

“No, and they pass too quickly with Cosette.” A slender white hand offered itself to Cosette; the child took it in her own tiny palms. “She will be a woman in minutes…”

The thought struck a chord in Valjean, and he winced. “Yes, well, let’s enjoy the lack of suitors while it lasts. My dear child, you should sleep a while. Mass will be long and last late into the night.”

Without so much as a shiver of protest, Cosette slipped from his lap and hung her dress over the back of a chair, pattering easily to her bedroom. Turning back to Fantine, Madeleine found that she herself was close to slumber. “You are welcome to try and attend tonight, if you feel well enough,” he murmured. “I would like it very much if you did.”

“I will try,” Fantine replied weakly. “I miss the church, monsieur.”

With that, Madeleine gave his quiet goodbyes and left both mother and daughter to rest.


	2. The Inspector of Montreuil-sur-Mer

What is it that lends the chapel such an air, blesses even the smallest of churches so that their meagre halls expand to the greatness of a cathedral? Only the presence of God and love – love in abundance. So it was with the church in Montreuil. Kindly Madeleine had gifted it with money over time, and the modest building improved its leaking roof and replaced its stained-glass windows. Draughts were sealed up, thick wooden doors bought and installed and never locked. The rustic simplicity was warmed and overwhelmed with grace that touched every stone and spilled out onto the streets.

Madeleine stood silently in his pew. Despite the lateness of the hour, Cosette was wide awake and took in everything with a sense of innocent delight, woollen coat pulled tight against the chill. Fantine sat on the wooden bench, weary and bundled with even greater care than her little daughter, but she smiled.

To say that Madeleine enjoyed the midnight vigil more than any other service would have been honest. To say that he adored and marvelled at every passing second would have been accurate. Like all the other members of the congregation who could do so, he was clutching a small candle, which cast a familiar light onto Cosette’s dreamlike features. The collected efforts of the people in bringing radiance into the church had gifted it with a heavenly glow. While he would not move from his place, Madeleine wished he could go outside and witness the glass saints lit by the many fires, blazing in their righteousness.

_ “ _ _ Vere dignum et justum est, æquum et salutare, nos tibi semper, et ubíque grátias agere: Dómine sancte, Pater omnípotens…” _

As he listened to the rolling voice of the priest, Valjean couldn’t help but think of the Bishop. Often, he was saddened by the fact that he had never heard the Bishop say mass, and reprimanded his younger self for praying outside his unlocked doors instead of going in again. That he was not alive to celebrate this Christmas was a great loss; a touch selfishly, Valjean found it an even greater loss that they had never been given room to speak after his soul was bought and he became Madeleine. Cosette should have known him. Fantine should have felt his grace. Too late, all too late. Perhaps in the next life they would meet again.

A gentle pressure pushed against his side and he looked down. Cosette was leaning against him, face screwed up with concentration as she tried to pry apart the foreign language of the mass. Valjean could relate, for his own Latin was passable at best. She was a good child, to be so attentive and make so little noise.

Holding his candle in one hand, he lowered the other to rest on her head; she looked up at him and offered a small smile.

_ To think _ , he mused,  _ I did not know her last year. What a difference the months can make! _

The mass moved into a hymn that he did not know, so he listened to the hushed chorus of voices and prayed. It was a long hymn, so the list of persons that he prayed for grew ever longer, until he hit upon the person of Javert and his internal plea stalled. Where was the Inspector? It surprised Madeleine that he hadn’t attended mass alongside the many policemen that filled the first pews. Usually, a person of such a rank would participate in the community, so as to bring themselves into a good light.

His black hair and unique whiskers were nowhere to be seen. It disappointed Madeleine. Then again, he had not perceived a Godly concern in the Inspector when he had been a guard in Toulon. Some guards had behaved like avenging angels exacting justice upon the demons and the dispossessed – Javert was not one of those. He appeared not to answer to any higher power beyond the law. Where one man may have said ‘your penance is unto the Lord’, he would have said ‘your penance is unto the law’. Thinking on this, Valjean was no longer surprised that Javert was not present. Yet it still discomfited him.

Again, Cosette shifted against his side, now tiring. Agreeably distracted by her, Valjean gave her his candle and lifted her up so that she might rest her head on his shoulder, Fantine watching in careful approval.

_ “ _ _ In illo témpore: Exiit edíctum a Cǽsare Augústo, ut describerétur univérsus orbis. Hæc descríptio prima facta est a prǽside Sýriæ Cyríno: et ibant omnes ut profiteréntur, sínguli in suam civitátem...” _

 

*

“Papa!”

Blearily opening his eyes, Valjean beheld a delighted Cosette.

“Papa!” She was in her nightgown, clutching a coin in her palm. “Look at what was in my shoes!”

A golden Louis d’or was thrust into his line of sight, and Valjean remembered the furtive steps he had taken in the night to hide it. “A kind gift from St Nicholas,” he mumbled, noting that the guest bed was far too uncomfortable. It was lucky that Fantine did not entertain people often. “ _ Joyeux Noël, mon trésor.” _

_ “Et tu, papa.”  _ As Valjean pushed himself upright, Cosette clambered onto the bed and into his embrace.

*

Bound by obligation and by charity, Madeleine visited his factory and assisted in the giving out of bread and sweet foods. As he had promised, a collection of particularly aspirational young boys had been paid to keep watch, allowing the police to spend the day with their families. There was a general sense of relief, of hope, the scent of cheer reigning even amongst the overwhelming stench of a factory. Hands clasped his own, hearts joined in that marvellous communion of the virgin birth.

“You are a saint.” How often did he hear those words?

“I am just a man,” he always replied, callused palms wrapping over his knuckles, peasant to mayor, innocent to convict. “It is Christmas. God bless you.” 

Bliss. The air was thick with it. Bliss born of charity and mercy. He stumbled home on a cloud, thoughts resting in the sublime. He only just had the presence of mind to tip his hat and offer greetings to those he passed.

“Are you quite alright, Monsieur?”

Blinking his emotion away, Madeleine found himself sat at his table, silver candlesticks flickering cheerfully. “Yes. I am very well, very well indeed. Oh,  _ Joyeux Noël,  _ dear Fantine.”

“ _ Joyeux Noël _ , Monsieur Madeleine.” She lifted his hand and pressed a kiss to it. “Thank you. For everything. You have saved my life, and you have saved my child. I will never be able to repay you.”

Overcome, Madeleine stood and drew Fantine into an embrace. “You are both gifts. The good God has blessed me.” He wiped at his eyes. “Now… the meal.”

“Yes. The meal.” Fantine stepped back and swiped at her cheeks in a similar motion. “A shame we couldn’t have it last night.”

“Cosette is too young. It was a kindness to wait.”

“She has been playing with the nativity set all morning.”

Bought a few years ago, long before he had entertained guests for Christmas, he had bought a roughly hewn wooden nativity just for the sake of owning one. None of them had faces. Surely they could not appeal to anyone but Madeleine’s simple desires, and to a child’s bright imagination.

“It is a rather unorthodox Christmas story,” Fantine added. “Mary turned into an ass.”

Madeleine choked on a laugh. “I see.”

Years without a portress left Madeleine with some cooking ability. He produced neatly baked tarts, raisins, figs and fruit aplenty. Potatoes soaked in rich butter. Small cuts of meat on fresh bread, and, of course, the yule log. His labours filled the table as Fantine sat and watched Cosette open her gifts.

“I love it!” A toy horse was galloping along the floorboards, Cosette’s face alight with imagination. It was similar in quality to Catherine, a finely hewn affair with gleaming white paint and a proper woollen mane, dark eyes glittering in the firelight.

“That one was from papa,” Fantine admitted quietly. “You must thank him, not me.”

Madeleine was carrying in the last of the meats when Cosette careened into him and grabbed at his legs. “Thank you!” she trilled, waving the horse up so that he could inspect it personally. “I’m going to call it Madeleine, after you!”

His face creased in adoration. “You are far too kind. But you are welcome.”

As they sat down to dine, Madeleine thought on his Christmas the year before. Having had no newly formed family, he had accepted an invitation to  _ réveillon  _ at the house of a wealthy landowning family, not wanting to be alone on Christmas Eve and feeling faintly obliged as a recently appointed mayor. Excess would scarcely have been an appropriate term to describe itself. Everything smacked of hyperbole. The large party gorged on lobster, escargot, oyster and rich desserts until dancing was nigh impossible. Talk was merry and fundamentally shallow, pretty girls laughing at the careless words of crude old men. In every aspect it offended Madeleine’s Christian sensibilities and he had stayed only just long enough to remain polite.

_ This is perfection _ , he thought, watching as Fantine helped Cosette in sitting comfortably, a fine but not frivolous meal ahead of them.

“Would you like to say grace?” he asked, patting at Cosette’s small hand.

“I don’t know how, I think.”

“Don’t the nuns have a prayer they say before you take lunch?”

“They do! I think I can remember it.” She bowed her head eagerly, and recited a short grace with intense care. It was well remembered; she did not fumble or stutter, face simple in her delight. “ _ Amen, _ ” she finished, and grinned.

“ _ Amen _ ,” Madeleine echoed.

There was a knock at the door.

The slightest second of exasperation ran through the mayor as he stood. “Pardon me. You may start eating.”

Foot dragging in his distracted state, Madeleine made his way to the door and opened it without any notion as to who it could be. A leering, white face peered in from the still world outside and he blinked.

“Hello, Javert.”

“Good afternoon, Monsieur.” The inspector leant forward as far as the space between them would allow. “ _ Joyeux Noël.” _

“And to you.”

Javert peered over Madeleine’s head (which was not terribly difficult given his height) and caught sight of Fantine and Cosette at the table. Barely hidden curiosity escaped in the form of a wry smile. “My apologies for interrupting dinner, Monsieur le maire. I merely considered it proper to wish you well on this feast day.”

“It is much appreciated, I assure you. But come inside, come inside, it is not right to be loitering in my doorway.”

“As you wish.” He ducked to avoid the low doorframe and took in the rustic charm of the lodgings. “Is this quite where you live?”

“You have not seen it?”

“No. I do not pry into the affairs of my superiors.” His clever gaze drank it in. “Simple, for a man of your standing. Why, you live like a peasant, when you could own a mansion!”

“I prefer it. Don’t you think it is nicer?”

Javert’s smile grew into something truly appalling. “I couldn’t possibly know.” His gaze alighted on the table, and onto Cosette. “Ah, this must be the child.”

Under Javert’s scrutiny Cosette seemed to shrink, slice of pie halfway up to her mouth. Discomfort was evident in her expression, and Madeleine could hardly blame her, given how the inspector made  _ him _ feel on a weekly basis. “Yes, this is Cosette, and her mother Fantine. Fantine, Cosette, this is Monsier l’inspecteur Javert. He only arrived recently and has been working tirelessly to improve our policing.”

“A pleasure to meet you both.” Javert inclined his head in a minute bow, eyes trying to pick apart the story of Fantine from sight alone, and she struggled to disguise a frown.

“And you, Monsieur l’inspecteur,” she replied, nudging Cosette into echoing the sentiment.

“Will you have a bite of something, Monsieur?” Madeleine gestured at large to the table. “Anything at all.”

“Your offer is very kind, but I have much to do, and it wouldn’t be appropriate to dally –“

“Do not tell me you are working on today of all days –“

“Crime does not sleep, Monsieur le maire!”

“A man must rest, Inspector! Have you celebrated at all this Christmas?”

Javert grumbled. “No. I am not in the habit of doing so.”

“Then you must join us for our meal. I insist,” Madeleine said, stifling the inspector’s words before they were given breath. “We must all celebrate on the day of our Lord’s birth.”

Strength barely necessary, he steered Javert into the chair next to his own and retrieved a spare plate and cutlery. Cosette, sat across from Javert, had started eating with wary motions, uncertain as to the trustworthiness of their new guest. Fantine offered an unhappy glare at Madeleine as he took his place and immediately tucked in. There was a long pause in which Javert seemed to consider the merits of bolting for the door before he recognised his cause as a lost one and collected a healthy pile of potatoes and meat, usual controlled expression melting in surprise at the taste.

“But this is good,” he said in some astonishment. “Where did a businessman such as yourself learn to cook?”

Madeleine rolled his eyes, but smiled. “Surely my heritage is obvious. I was a peasant in my younger years, and I picked up something from my sister.” A drop of sorrow hit his heart and he forced his tone to remain light. “I don’t bother with a cook, most of the time.”

“I didn’t wish to assume anything, Monsieur.” Javert had a gleam of hunger in his eyes that Madeleine would never have expected to see.  

“I would never be insulted.” Madeleine turned to Cosette, who was struggling with a tart. “Is this all to your liking, my sweet?”

She nodded stickily. Juices from the food had dribbled down her chin leaving satisfied streaks of colour in their wake, and Fantine wiped them away with a chuckle. “Bless you.”

Javert failed to disguise a shudder.

Fantine’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.

“So… Monsieur l’Inspecteur. I trust that the station is to your liking? You have settled in somewhat?”

“It is well enough,” Javert replied, himself trying to eat neatly and furrowing his brow at his failure. “A few of your gendarmes leave something to be desired. The secretary is idle beyond belief. But otherwise it is well.”

“Any interesting crimes thus far?” To everyone’s surprise, it was Fantine who had asked, expression carefully bland.

“I have… not yet been here a month, Madame. There are suggestions of a hideout for escaped convicts near to the coast, but it is one of many.”

Madeleine chewed at his lip. There  _ was _ such a place nearby – he had heard of it himself when planning ahead for his own breakouts. How unfortunate that the police had caught wind of it, when they were such vital hideaways, offered so much hope for those who still had a glimmer of feeling in their hearts.

“That is a shame,” Fantine replied. “But it is well. I was wrong to ask of crime when it is Christmas.”

Having decided that she was no longer afraid of Javert, Cosette sat further upright in her chair. “I like your face, Monsieur!”

There was a long pause, in which all three adults paused in confusion. “My face?” Javert asked, raising one hand to his cheek. “I – oh. My whiskers, you mean? Well, yes, thank you. I do rather like them myself.”

They talked to one another carefully, Cosette in her piping tones and Javert in his unrelentingly serious manner. It was an odd sight. She had to crane her face upwards to see his looming spectre, and he peer downwards with a mollified look in his eyes that made him nigh unrecognisable. Taking a small slice of cake, Fantine sighed.

“How strange,” she muttered.

“Indeed,” Madeleine replied, and then more quietly, “I apologise for interrupting our plans –“

She shook her head with a wry smile. “Truly, I should have known that something like this would happen. Besides which, you cannot apologise to me. I owe you everything and can begrudge you nothing.”

A loud clatter of plates announced that the inspector had finished with his meal. He squinted at Cosette, which made her laugh, and turned to Madeleine. “Thank you, Monsieur. It was delicious. You have many a talent.”

“It is my pleasure.”

“I assume you are attending the ball tonight?”

“Indeed. Cosette is coming with me. On which note – you should go and get changed.” Cosette nodded and bounced away, Fantine following with a definite measure of relief.

“I am also going to be present,” Javert noted stiffly, and Madeleine paused in surprise. Now that he knew to look, Javert  _ was _ dressed differently. His usual black wool coat had been replaced by a similar but thinner version, collar no doubt hiding a fine white shirt. No change had come with his boots (which were always polished within an inch of their life) but his trousers did look newer. Along with this came a gentle air of uncertainty.

“You were invited?” Much as he had not meant for it to be so, incredulity coloured Madeleine’s words.

Javert did not outwardly take offence. “I am there on business. As a guard.”

“ _ Ah _ .” That made more sense. In light of his new knowledge, Madeleine took in Javert in his entirety and was faintly pleased by the sight. “Well they made a good choice, Monsieur. You both look the part of the inspector and a party goer. Although, if you wish to borrow a cravat you may.”

Javert paused and a brief struggle crossed his face. “If you would be so kind,” he managed to say.  

Used to helping Cosette dress, Madeleine had to hold himself back from doing Javert’s cravat for him, the red silk slipping easily through the inspector’s fingers. There was something missing, still, and it took a moment for Madeleine to remember.

“I have something for you,” Madeleine said, and began to root through a cabinet at the side of the room.

“It is not yet the new year –“

“Think of it as an early present. You will make use of them.” Finally, Madeleine dislodged a paper parcel from amidst other boxes, and extracted himself. He pressed the parcel into the inspector’s hands. “Here. For Christmas, and as a way to celebrate your arrival.”

Javert made to protest and thought better of it. In a few controlled movements he untied the string, pulled the paper open, and two subtle black gloves lay in his palms.

“So that your fingers do not freeze during early rounds,” Madeleine supplied.

Distantly, Javert pulled his gloves on, one after the other. They sat snugly around his fingers; when he tensed, the leather gave out a threatening creak, a wordless promise of violence. Altogether a wholly suitable choice for a policeman enacting rough justice. “I thank you, Monsieur,” Javert said, still focused on his hands. “These are… these are incredibly fine. They fit me just so. I don’t want to think about the expense –“

“Then don’t. A gift is not measured in money.”

It completed the outfit very finely indeed.

Cosette appeared at the dinner table fully dressed up and pink with delight, ribbons in her hair and pleats sitting in perfect form around her legs, the suffering of the lark far from her mind. “Enjoy yourselves,” Fantine said, already eyeing the pot of tea which was brewing in the corner.

Together, Javert and Madeleine walked along the cobble streets to the ball, Cosette skipping at Madeleine’s side. With every jump her skirts would lift and spin. In her excitement, she ran out ahead, calling to her papa in happy bursts. Javert’s gaze was fixed upon her in a look of singular curiosity. “In truth, Monsieur, is she yours?” The slow walk of his words implied a level of discomfort that was uncommon in the man.

“In truth, she is not.”

“But she calls you papa.” Javert appeared to be struggling with the concept. “And you are not her father?”

“I suppose I am her – benefactor.” At this, Javert’s eyebrows seemed to disappear completely into his hairline, and Madeleine sighed. “No, that is not a euphemism. There is a tale behind it. I owed a debt to her mother.”

“To Fantine?”

“ _ Oui _ , and the thought still oppresses me. You wonder how the woman ended up in such a state? I shall tell you. Once, Fantine worked in my factory, raising money so that Cosette might live comfortably with innkeepers who had taken the child in. News of her fatherless child spread and she was sacked. Had I only known then! I found her in the jail, pleading with an officer, and went to her aid. Her desperation cost her pride; she spat at me, as well she might.”

Watching Cosette dance in the snow, Valjean smiled softly. “I swore I would bring her Cosette, and I did. If it is a penance to raise the child, then it’s a kinder penance than any I have known.”

“I would not have been so kind,” Javert muttered. “You are a man of mercy, Monsieur le maire.”

“It was my duty, now it is my delight. Cosette! My child, come here.” Upon hearing her name, Cosette ran back to Madeleine and jumped up into his arms, resting comfortably upon his hip as a mother might carry a babe. “Doesn’t Monsieur l’inspecteur look well in his hat?”

“It is very proper,” the child agreed.

Javert had gone an odd shade of pink, uneven blotches of colour rising on his nose and cheeks. “Well!” he said, pursing his lips. “Well. Thank you, Monsieur le maire.”

Obviously the comment had bothered Javert some deal, for he didn’t say another word, although the blush could have been attributed to the temperature. They travelled in peaceful silence to the Mairie. Lights were blazing through the windows, and golden music sprang out into the snow. The proper gaiety of the wealthy made Madeleine smile uncomfortably. He was not yet  _ Madeleine _ enough to enjoy parties wholeheartedly.

“Good of you to lend them the Mairie,” Javert said, finding his voice.

“It is tradition,” Madeleine replied simply. “Besides, the building is not truly mine.”

“Forgive me, but it is… quite literally yours, Monsieur.”

“It belongs to the mayor. As the position is not permanent, I would be hesitant to claim full ownership.” Cosette shivered in his arms. “I should have hired a fiacre,” Madeleine muttered ruefully.

They hurried into the building, shaking loose the elements, Madeleine anxiously neatening his cravat as Javert pulled himself into his usual alert state. Already, Madeleine could sense the eager eyes of the bourgeois alighting upon him, women smoothing the folds of their dresses and men counting the number of projects they could possibly thrust upon their mayor.  _ What I would give to be a mere businessman,  _ he thought. Rather miserably he handed his outer coat to a servant and pressed his hat on top of it.

The momentary spell of privacy was broken. A slender hand appeared in the crook of his arm, followed by an intensely fashionable young lady. Three men and two demure wives immediately demanded his attention in the most politely rude manner possible. From the corner of his eye, he watched Javert take Cosette’s hand and offer their names to the servant at the door, disappearing down the steps into the ballroom proper.

“Now if you would simply consider this invention –“ one voice said, as he shook hands with somebody completely different.

“My good Monsieur, it is a delight to see you at a ball at last –“

“But Monsieur Madeleine, will you not dance with me -?”

This was why he did not go to parties.

Irritation scratched at the back of his throat and his smile grew polite in the extreme. Another four interested persons had appeared. Lady Brackley, an English woman who had married into the wealthiest family in town, offered gracious greetings. Her red dress billowed out from her impossibly thin chest, and Madeleine rather uncharitably thought she looked much like a bauble.

He raised one hand. “Thank you all for your greetings, but I must join the party proper. It would be ungracious to stay stood in the foyer,  _ non? _ ”

With that, he slipped out and stalked over to the servant at the door. “Good evening,” he sighed.

“No need to tell me  _ your _ name, Monsieur le maire. Have a wonderful evening.” Turning to the room at large, he announced, “ _ Monsieur le Maire, Jean Madeleine.” _

Every head immediately swivelled around to see him as he stepped out. He offered a poor attempt at a smile, convict within him wincing at the attention, faintly overwhelmed by the finery he was met with. Everything glittered – the marble floor, the columns dancing up to the ceiling, candles winking knowingly at his disguise. Applause rippled through the crowd, much to his hidden bewilderment.

Hurrying down the short flight of steps, he passed Javert and muttered a half-accidental ‘ _ I hate this _ ’, catching only an inch of bemused expression before a cluster of landowners pulled him into conversation.

Finally, Madeleine managed to extract himself from the interest of the people, dangerously close to slipping in his disguise. He had danced with fourteen women, indulged Cosette in a little jig of their own, and talked at length about meaningless politics with bland frock coats. While the women batted their eyes and the men lobbied to their utmost, nothing quite managed to pull away his polite mask.

Ducking beside a pillar, he found Javert stood to attention, empty champagne flute in hand. His stance suggested the rigid vigilance of the inspector rather than a partygoer. “I am glad to see you,” Madeleine breathed, neatening his cravat. “They all talk too much.”

“You are the mayor,” Javert replied, still scanning the crowd. “You are the authority of this town. Your attention is invaluable.”

“I have not been so for terribly long, and the feeling remains new.”

“You were not invited to these before?”

“I was, but as a businessman. Only the men sought me out. It is easier to talk of jet than to endure the flirtations of women.” Madeleine recognised how strange this sounded without noting Javert’s sidewards glance. “I miss that.”

“Perhaps I understand why you refused the position in the past.”

“You didn’t before?”

“Not entirely. To be offered such a thing is an honour, a great honour, and any other man would leap upon it. It seemed rather queer, Monsieur, but now I see that you are simply shy.” Javert inspected the rim of his glass. “That is an admirable quality, Monsieur, it speaks of piousness.”

Madeleine had to suppress a laugh, masking it with a cough. “Yes, I suppose so. Have you danced yet? It would be a shame not to.”

“I do not know how, Monsieur.”

“The ladies do, and they would teach you.”

“It is above my station to ask such a thing.”

“Above your – gracious.” Amusement tickled Valjean deeply, and he bowed to Javert, who stared in outright alarm. “If you would dance with me, Monsieur l’inspecteur? It is surely a politeness to agree.”

Javert hesitated. For a second, he appeared angry, before smoothing his face into his usual mask of obedience. He bowed. “I would be honoured, Monsieur le maire.”

Naturally, Javert had spoken true. Despite being a far sight shorter, Madeleine took up the leading position, holding the inspector’s hand dispassionately. Years of experience denied his limp its usual rule and he danced with surprising grace, smiling as Javert watched the motion of their feet and memorised it efficiently. A few minutes of stumbling around the corner of the room melted into an agreeable chassé.

“You learn very quickly, Javert.”

“You are an adroit instructor, Monsieur. You do not talk.”

Madeleine laughed. It was dangerously easy to let your guard down at a party, especially when alcohol was in abundance and the other attendees were already gay. The small orchestra that had been secreted in the corner of the room were playing green songs. One could almost forget that it was inspector Javert, the hound himself, dancing with him.

“You haven’t told me much about yourself, inspector. You are younger than I, but not  _ that _ much younger. There must be tales.”

Overdaring, perhaps, but Valjean already knew the history and Madeleine needed the reminder. Javert passed by a fluttering lady in green and he hummed. “It is not fit for Christmas, monsieur.”

“At this kind of affair, anything is passé, providing it is interesting. You spoke of Toulon?”

Purposefully casual, Madeleine still found himself flushing at the word. For a second, Javert’s eyes alighted with dark suspicion, and Madeleine could not help but meet their scrutiny. Then the shadow of Champmatheiu alighted over them and the suspicion passed. Javert loosened his fingers by way of thinking. “It is not so interesting,” he eventually replied.

Madeleine indiscreetly flushed and pretended to watch his feet. What a definite refusal!

“What of your own, Monsieur?” Javert cocked his head to one side. “The rumour mill is  _ furious _ on the matter.”

“I can imagine.”

“Not that I seek out such a thing.”

Searching the inspector’s expression, Madeleine found that there was no trace of a lie. “In truth, I know not why they gossip so much,” he said, a bloom of sharp perfume coating his throat as they passed another pair of dancers. “My skin is ruddy, my hands are calloused, I am improper in ways of speech and society – I am a peasant, and well they know it. I am a provincial.”

“That much I had surmised, although your accent, Monsieur, it is homeless.” Javert furrowed his brow. “For want of a better phrase.”

How correct it was.

“Bland,” Madeleine offered, chuckling.

“ _ Proper _ ,” Javert said. “I hope you shall not continue to goad me into insulting you, Monsieur. But – your past. They say you came to town and saved children from a burning building, which did not surprise me in the least.”

“What, was I to stand aside?”

“They were not your problem.”

“Any suffering is my problem.” The last few bars of the piece began to trail away, and they broke apart with a stiff bow. “That is the nature of mercy, and charity.”

“Two things I do not put much stock in,” the inspector replied sharply.

“You would do well to.”

“I fear… I fear that these are virtues befitting a Mayor, not virtues befitting a policeman. Any wavering in the law would invite for wily criminals to abuse the weaknesses.” Eyes trailing across the room, Javert’s mouth drew into a thin line. “We are taking up space on the floor. You should go and socialise, Monsieur. It would be improper to spend the evening with me.”

Madeleine offered a hand. “Thank you for the dance.”

Eyeing it wearily, Javert paused. “Again? I cannot refuse but – a mere police spy…” The words were mostly his own and he took the hand and shook it.

Faces blurred into one another, politeness giving way to dull conversation. All the while, Madeleine thought only of Javert, and worried. The mayor’s habitual kindness was at war with the sensibilities of the convict.

If Javert could still suspect…

No. A man was dead already. Sneaking about as though he were under scrutiny could only draw attention to himself, and would certainly not go unnoticed by Javert, who as of yet had no  _ reason _ to join any dots between Monsieur Madeleine and some strong convict gone to the guillotine. How could he? ‘ _ I recognised him as soon as I saw him’,  _ Javert had said.

Watching the dancers flitting about, Madeleine felt the chafe of his suit and wondered if Jean Valjean was recognisable in him at  _ all _ .

 


	3. Pecuniary Concerns

_Lifting his head, Valjean observed the young guard with muted curiosity._

_They said his name was Javert, posted in Toulon due to his diligence and his steadfast loyalty to the law. Valjean thought that he could not be more than twenty – so, around ten years younger than himself, practically a boy. Rarely did they hire anyone below 25. His guard’s uniform sat more like a costume on his shoulders, handsome features outlined by an attempt at whiskers. 24601 smirked. Stronger men had failed in their duties. No doubt he would turn to drink before the year was out._

_Back held impossibly straight, Javert exchanged words with another, more seasoned guard. They moved along the line of slaves together, occasionally pausing to make comments about one prisoner or another. They paused at an ailing old man._

_“Don’t bother with him,” the older guard muttered. “He won’t be here much longer. Once the fight goes out of them, death follows swiftly.”_

_Impassive, Javert nodded._

_“I have something to show you,” the older guard continued. “Come, meet Jean le Cric.”_

_Upon hearing his name, 24601 averted his eyes, feeling more than seeing the presence of the two men who approached. “Look at me,” an unfamiliar voice demanded, and he obeyed._

_Javert’s eyes were a shock to behold. They were a fierce bright blue, like those of the dogs in Faverolles that had once nipped at his hands and growled at his approach. Immediately, Valjean’s spirit trembled, subdued by the intelligence behind such a sharp gaze. “24601,” Javert said, inexperience evidenced by the adolescence lingering in his pitch. “I have heard of you.”_

_Like a knife, his gaze travelled along the lines and muscles of Valjean’s form. At length, he turned to his companion, who Valjean had forgotten under Javert’s scrutiny. “Can I ask him to lift something?”_

_“You could do far worse, petit loup. Do whatever you want, he’s under your command.”_

_Javert gestured to a beam of a ship that had yet to be carried in. It was a huge thing, usually the work of five men, but this didn’t deter the guard. “Bring that in, 24601.” Intrigue stained his otherwise immaculate expression._

_Without a second thought, Valjean walked to the beam and slowly levered it upwards, straining. He supposed, idly, that this was rather impressive, dragging the wood behind him as though it were half the weight. This was 24601 in his prime. Newer prisoners observed in amazement. Seasoned prisoners paid the feat no heed. It took him a few minutes, but he completed his task, catching a glimpse of Javert’s awe and fear. The guard spoke two words and Valjean read them on his lips._

_“Mon dieu,”_ Madeleine groaned, sat on his chair before the fire. A glass of wine rested idly in his left hand.

Recently, memories of Toulon dogged his thoughts, old scars aching beneath his shirt. It mattered not that it was the spring of 1825, and that he had been a free man for almost a decade. Whispers in his mind of the evil man, of 24601, never let him be. _You should dismiss him,_ the voice insisted. _Ruin him. It would feel so good._

In truth, Valjean had taken a genuine interest in the police prodigy. He’d watched Javert change. Any trace of youth, and an endearing curious streak, died. Even though 24601 tried to rattle him by carrying ever heavier loads, Javert’s fear was replaced by annoyance. Eventually, it grew into the same apathy that most guards felt towards every prisoner, nothing special between them. 

_“How many lashes, monsieur?”_

_“Twenty. I trust you will count it correctly, Javert.”_

_“Oui, monsieur.”_

_24601 rankled against his restraints, ears following every creak and footstep that the guard loosened. Unlike the others, Javert never mocked when he gave lashings, nor did he extort the number. He would whip the prisoner for the exact number of lashings that they had earned – no more, no less. For this, Valjean was oddly grateful. Some guards abused their power and left men dead. At least you knew what to expect when the proud Javert exacted your punishment._

_The wood of the table was painfully solid against his chest. Prepared, Javert stood to his side and lifted the leather whip into the air._

_It streaked across his back and made Valjean wince, the sting rising slowly along the stripe a few seconds later, like thunder rolling after lightning. “One,” Javert muttered._

_Again, the whip was raised, again, it fell. This time the pain was more profound and the prisoner struggled to withhold a whimper. “Two.”_

_The next stripe made Valjean cry out. “Three.”_

There was no way of knowing if Javert’s efforts were the ones that had left a physical impression on Madeleine’s scarred back. Years of abuse piled on top of one another, and there had been far crueller jailers than the straight-laced inspector. Yes, Javert was obsessively lawful, and in the Bagne de Toulon this was a mercy compared to other men. Some loved to cause agony, others the power of the position. A few were honest men. There was only one Javert.

Standing with a sigh, Madeleine paced the floors and gazed out of the window. Cosette was concerned for his wellbeing as of late, noticing the way that her papa would look into the distance, seeing another time. Guilt oppressed him.

“You worry too much, papa,” she told him one evening, far too erudite for her age. “You always look sad when Monsieur Javert leaves. Has he said something mean?”

It had been a struggle to keep from laughing, but Madeleine managed it. “No, no, my child. It is nothing.”

Over the past months, Madeleine had remembered things long forgotten, long repressed. Dousing his candlesticks with dampened thumb and forefinger, he prayed for Champmatheiu. His prayer was especially fervent, for he had recalled something of the death penalty. During his stay at Toulon, the guillotine was out of fashion, execution exacted by the firing squad. They did not make a habit of executing prisoners. When they did, however, it was public.

_It was the year 1802, or something like._

_As so rarely happened in the bagne, Valjean and his fellow prisoners had been given relief from labour. At the start of the day, guards had called for them to remove their caps and be sure to behave. Hushed conversations burst out from all around Valjean, some excited, others doubtful. For Valjean himself, there could be no celebration. He removed his red cap and stayed silent._

_Obediently, he walked with his fellows to where the firing squad waited. There had been talk of an execution. Another prisoner, 3457, had attacked a guard and punishment was swift in the bagne. It was the custom to make the prisoners watch._

_To Valjean’s relief, he was not placed close to the front. That was reserved for the green caps. “Kneel,” a guard threatened, every prisoner around him dropping to their knees, bare heads shining in the sunlight. Javert, who had already become hardened to the reality of Toulon, cast a careless glance at the prisoners, catching Valjean’s eye for only a moment before he observed the gleaming guns of the squad._

_3457 stumbled out in front of the wall, hundreds of men watching in perfect silence._

_Valjean did not watch. He shut his eyes as soon as the bullets began to sing. The sound alone was appalling enough and he gagged, vaguely aware of the uncomfortable or exhilarated shuffling of the men kneeling on either side of him. Briefly, he thought of his nephew and was calmed by it, knowing that it was for the boy that he had gone to this hell._

_“24601.”_

_He lifted his head and opened his eyes._

_Javert was scowling. “Stand up. Work begins now. And I noticed that you shut your eyes. Do you think that we drag you here for the sake of our health? Non, Jean-le-cric, we do not. It serves as a warning to you. Now, you will look.”_

_The line of prisoners were directed past the body, and Javert’s cudgel prodded Valjean in the back and forced him to witness the bloody rag of a man expiating his life into the cobblestones. “Good,” Javert breathed. Every hair on Valjean’s neck prickled in disgust. “Tu comprends?”_

_“Oui, monsieur.”_

_Shortly afterward, Valjean made his second escape attempt, determined not to witness anything of the sort again._

Yet surely he must have. No matter how much Madeleine plumbed his own mind, he could not recall seeing another execution, and surmised that he had blocked it out. They were not infrequent. Perhaps Javert had not been there, and therefore could not provide the spur of thought that brought up such memories. It was the firing squad, not the guillotine, and a guilty aspect of Valjean was glad for it because it would surely ruin him.

“My God, if there is anything I can do to pay penance…” Valjean ducked his head and sighed. “I would do it a hundred times.”

Cosette could not count, not as penance. She and Fantine were the greatest gifts he had ever been given, so the scales were unfairly tipped in his favour. Perhaps Javert… Perhaps the memories and the anxiety were his trial. The weight of the inspector’s hand in his own as they danced felt like a mockery. _This man would be your jailer,_ fate declared. _You must dance with him, endure his stares and his half-born suspicions. Escape the bagne. You cannot escape judgement._

If only Javert were not… likeable. His philosophy appalled Madeleine, his cruelty to the poor made him rankle, his obsession with the law confounding. He made Madeleine laugh. He was polite to a fault, and had a wry sarcasm that came out far too little.  

Even Javert had his dimensions.

_You know that he respects you._

It was true.

_And admires the town. No doubt his respect would become worship at the correct tip of the hat._

Madeleine did not want worship.

_The Lord makes no mistakes. Everything happens for a reason, everything is a part of his plan. Discern what Javert is here for, in the Lord’s eyes – then you will know._

At that, Madeleine lowered his glass and began to pray. _Allow me to know your will, O Lord,_ he begged. _Until then, may I be your messenger of peace. I will be a friend to him, even when it repels me._

Those eyes under the blue cloth cap of the adjutant guard… Yes, Madeleine would look into the eyes that had loathed him, and he would feel no fear. He was one with the Lord’s will, and he was at peace.

*

The chance to enact his plan came with remarkable speed.

Madeleine paced the streets of his town, noting the quality of the buildings. It was early, early enough that the sun had barely touched the purpling sky, but work did not cease for a mayor. Deciding where to give money was always a difficult task. His heart desired to assist every person in Montreuil; his head knew that this was impossible. Instead, charity should be given where it was most needed. In lieu of this reasoning he had gone for a walk and was casually inspecting the brickwork of the decrepit apartments.

It was one of those mornings in which Madeleine was saddened by the fact that the waters had receded. A stiff sea breeze would complete the image, that tang of salt that he had experienced in Toulon, only now it would be mixed with the scents of the bakery or the market rather than the sweat of exhausted men. Instead there was only the carcasses of long-forgotten ships and docks extending out into nothing.

Another figure was stalking along the cobbles a short way ahead. In his attentive study of the town, Madeleine had not noticed until now, and immediately suspected who it might be.

“Ah, monsieur!”

The figure turned. Even in the morning light, Javert’s pale face was recognisable against the black of his coat. Without hesitation, Javert made his way over to the mayor, stopping a few feet away with a bow.

“Good morning, Monsieur le maire. You are industrious as ever.” From close range, Javert’s nose was noticeably reddened, eyes squinting against the cold.

“Simply checking the integrity of my town, Javert, as is my duty. And you?”

“Doing the morning rounds.”

“Again?”

“I take the shift willingly, Monsieur. The other men have wives and I do not. Besides which, walks are good for the system, especially in the morning.” His voice sounded faintly hoarse, giving it a rougher quality than usual.

Madeleine had to bite his cheek to prevent a smile from forming. “You look freezing, even beneath your coat. Would you like my scarf?”

Shaking his head, Javert thrust his hands into his pockets and chin beneath his collar, compromising his perfect posture. “I am quite alright, Monsieur le maire.”

“It is an honest offer.”

“It would be improper –“

“It would improve your _efficiency_ ,” Madeleine drawled, now incapable of hiding his amusement. He unwound the scarf from his neck. “Here.”

Javert’s jaw tightened but he reached out and took the scarf, neatly tying it just beneath his chin. “You are… kind. Thank you.”

“It is nothing.” Waving a hand carelessly, Madeleine paused. “Surely it would be easier to do this with your horse, Javert. It would prevent you catching a chill.”

Javert gave him a mystified look that barely fit upon the Inspector’s usual slate of facial expressions. “That was not _my_ horse,” he replied. “Non, that belonged to the prefecture, and I was given it to travel because a carriage was impossible. I could never afford a horse on my wages.” Javert made a strange sound – it took a moment for Madeleine to realise that he was chuckling. “Do my rounds on a horse… you are funny, Monsieur le maire.”

Had he seen Javert on the animal since his arrival? It had been three months, and despite his observant nature, he had never noticed its absence. “On your wages?” Madeleine asked, thoroughly bemused.

“…Oui, monsieur. I _am_ a police spy.” Again, Javert ducked his head down, masking his nose with the scarf. “I do not think you realise – well, why would you. It is not your concern.”

Sunlight caught the pair in a moment of brilliance. While they were talking it had crept up into view.

“I must be going. Thank you again, monsieur. I will return the scarf when I give my report.”

“It is yours. I have another.” Madeleine clapped Javert on the shoulder and watched the inspector start with alarm at the friendliness of the action. “Good day, Javert.”

“Good day, Monsieur le maire.”

*

300 francs.

A year.

Javert was earning 300 francs a _year._

Madeleine could have overturned his desk in his fury. He would have, were it not the study he owned in the Mairie. _300 francs a year._

The workers in his factory made about 1000, give or take, and that still wasn’t enough. Many had families, true, more mouths to feed, but they had a level of comfort. God, Javert was too dedicated to his work to take another job.

_He must be living on the verge of poverty_ , Madeleine thought, and his gut twisted in horror. _And he is far too proud to admit it!_

Police wages were not usually his concern. The prefecture in Paris decided that, and in the past he had simply assumed that the men in his town were paid decently. Certainly, the gendarmes were happy enough, as were his policemen. Javert was an inspector.

An inspector. Unpopular, sly, a man who dresses like the people and who condemns them. A spy.

The guards at Toulon had lived decently. In truth, while an inspector was a step up from the utter loathing that bagne guards lived in, it was a step down in pay. Had Javert truly hated his work so much that he would push himself to this?

Inconceivable.

How to approach him? If he offered money it would be scorned as an act of charity (which, Madeleine supposed, it was.) Could he increase his pay? Would the prefecture take the time over such a thing?

_Chabouillet_ , Madeleine mused, _his patron. If I write and let him know… Know that the inspector does no other work…_

If Javert found out he may never forgive him. Pushing that uncomfortable thought away, Madeleine sat back in his chair, hand inches away from his pen. It was a good thing that Javert was not married, if this was the income he sustained himself on. Then again, Madeleine could not picture Javert with a wife. The man was too rough, unsuited for romance, unfitting for the clever ways of women. Far more suitable would be a partner in work, another man.

For a second, Madeleine allowed himself to picture it. In Paris, the inspector would find a policeman of equal wit, intelligence, capable and strong of build. He would be fervent in his beliefs – probably about the law, but maybe about God, in order to offset Javert’s own careless faith. He would be merciful and just. Perhaps they would sit in their shared apartment and talk about life with that grandeur of philosophy, sparking in debates but always fast friends, encouraging one another, challenging one another. He would be Javert’s foil, and faithful partner, bringing justice to the streets.

Yes, that suited Javert far better than a wife.

But he would have to survive before any such thing could happen.

Uncertainty gone, Madeleine picked up sheet of paper and began to draft his letter. It required a light hand, words chosen with precise care, respect on behalf of Chabouillet and Javert. Included was a small plea –

_I request only one other thing – that you do not inform Monsieur l’inspecteur of my part in the matter. You know as well as I that he would not appreciate my intervention on his behalf, and I write this only because of my personal distress at the lack of due payment to such a determined policeman. If, indeed, this request is impossible, I shall pay it out of my own private means. In that instance, I ask only that it appear that the money does not come from myself, but from the prefecture._

He gazed over his work and bathed in satisfaction, pulling ink up from the well one last time.

_Gratefully yours,_

_Jean Madeleine_

*

Three weeks later, when March had taken its grip and the first glances of Spring were turning into an embrace, Javert appeared in the Mairie.

“Monsieur l’inspecteur is here to see you,” Madeleine’s secretary announced, peering through the door. His glasses had fallen severely down his nose, giving him a serious aura on top of his usual efficiency. “He appears… agitated. With due respect, Monsieur le maire, I would advise you not to turn him away.”

“I shall not,” he replied simply. “Allow him entry.”

When Javert entered (walking as though on hot coals), the ice of his glare was unmistakeable. A letter was tightly curled in his fist. “Monsieur le maire,” he said, stiffly.

Madeleine took in all of this in one glance and nodded. “Good morning, Inspector. Is there something I can do for you?”

A noise escaped from Javert’s throat which came somewhere between a growl and a hiss. “Indeed, Monsieur. It is about this letter.” In three jagged movements he stepped up to the desk and presented the crumpled paper.

_Dear Inspector Javert,_

_Upon reflection on your skills and devotion to duty, your current wages have been brought into consideration. It is our belief at the prefecture that earnings should reflect effort…_

Madeleine scanned the letter until he came to a number. _Therefore, your yearly wage will be increased to that of 600 francs, with the potential of a higher amount in the case of continued diligence._

Relief coursed through Madeleine, and his polite façade slipped as he let out a shaky breath. Javert noticed the sound and the fury in his eyes grew.

“Monsieur,” he began. “I must ask if you had anything to do with this. Initially I was surprised that such a thing would happen, but upon rereading the letter I find it impossible that you did not have a hand in this, as it references my conduct so frequently and I can only imagine that you would be the source of such information. There is also the matter of the horse, Monsieur, and that this news should come after our brief conversation…” Javert closed his eyes.

Madeleine reminded himself never to underestimate Javert again. Believing that he could fool the inspector had been pure arrogance. Rolling up the letter, he sighed again, and stood. “You are, naturally, correct. When I learned of your earnings I wrote to your patron. They were unjust-“

“They were _just_ , because they are what the prefecture has decided is fair for my line of _work_.” Never before had Javert displayed such open vehemence, and Madeleine stepped back in shock. His glare was tight and barely controlled. “If I wanted to beg for more money I would have done it, but I _do not,_ so I have not.”

“300 francs a year is not enough for one man, Javert, I cannot imagine how you have survived thus on so little.”

“We are not all blest with your position, _Monsieur le maire._ ” The title, usually deferential, had become a slur on the inspector’s tongue. “I am _not_ one of your _charity cases._ What must my patron think of me! That the mayor has to _beg_ on my behalf.”

“It was not _just_ , and he could _see that –“_

“ _I am a spy!”_ Javert cried. “Damn you, Monsieur! I know your saintly eyes can only see the good in everyone – much good may it do you! I am a _spy_ , I am as cast out as the convict, I am as loathed as the criminal! Pittance is what I have earned. It is my birthright, my mother –“

He paused. For a terrible second Javert came close to crumpling, before pulling himself upright and melting back into his polite, lawful posture. “May I have the letter, Monsieur?”

Without a word, Madeleine passed it over. The apology in his action was thoroughly ignored. “I am sorry, Javert. Monsieur l’inspecteur.”

“I will visit to give my report tomorrow evening,” was all Javert said. “I am sorry for my behaviour. I was unprofessional, Monsieur le maire.”

“You have done no wrong.”

After Javert left, the secretary looked in and pulled at his collar. “Is everything alright, Monsieur?”

Madeleine sighed. “ _Oui,_ I am fine. A private matter.”

The door shut carefully.

“I am a fool,” Madeleine said, addressing nobody in particular. Guilt thrummed in his chest. What was it that Javert had been going to say? Something very personal. Ever penitent, the mayor paused to pray, wishing that Javert knew the fervency of his prayers, wishing for something else that he did not yet know.

*

The report was predictably stilted. Neither man could hold their gaze. Javert’s shoes had been shined, his trousers were new, he wore Madeleine’s Christmas gift over precisely placed hands. It made Madeleine’s heart ache.

_You barely know him_ , he thought. _You were not even friends. You cannot, truly, be friends. Not you._

So he ignored the lack of witticisms and the lack of coffee in mugs that burned their fingerprints. He simply listened to Javert recounting the events of the past week, stood to attention with his palms folded at his front, eyes considering the window behind the desk rather than the mayor himself. _Was this not inevitable?_

Rather without meaning to, he zoned out of Javert’s clipped sentences.

_“Word is that you’re out tomorrow.”_

_Checking that none of the guards were paying close attention, Valjean nodded at 25303, who grinned with very few teeth. “It’s nice for some,” he continued, waggling the green cloth on his head. “But you enjoy it, you hear me?”_

_“I will try,” he replied shortly. Jean le cric was not known for being much of a conversationalist – his words had died with the years, vocabulary slipping away alongside his heart._

_“Outside…” 25303 shook his head. “You won’t have the stink anymore, huh? Think I remember what flowers were like, ‘n grass ‘n things. No more of these old bastards.” He sneered at a guard, earning an alarmed look and a prod of the cudgel to his side. “No, none o’ them.”_

_He craved the world beyond. Beyond the bagne, what was it like… he had so little left of Faverolles. Nineteen years. Nineteen years of hell, it had dried up all of that. Perhaps whatever was waiting on the outside could make up for this injustice._

_“You sure paid a lot for that bread,” 25303 chuckled, and Valjean resisted the clawing urge to punch him._

_“I’ll make them pay their share,” Valjean said. “Somehow.”_

_When he awoke the next morning and was led away from his chain-mate, he passed many familiar faces. Prisoners – Chenildieu hollered at him and was beaten into silence – guards. Javert stood to the side as a nameless guard handed him his yellow passport._

_“You are to report your presence at every town you arrive at.”_

_“Yes, monsieur.” Valjean knew the parole system well enough._

_“If you do not report yourself to the local mairie within a month, you will be in violation of your parole.”_

_“I understand, monsieur.”_

_Javert suddenly tilted his head, previously perfectly still. “It says you are a dangerous man, Jean Valjean. This is your stain, your blemish to carry. Do you undersand?”_

_Defiantly, he caught Javert’s gaze directly. “Je comprends.”_

_“Now, if somebody will undo the chain on hi-“_

“Monsieur le maire.”

Madeleine jumped. An older, equally displeased Javert was glaring at him, obviously trying and failing to be polite. “Did you hear any of that, Monsieur?”

“I am so sorry, Javert. I must have… gotten caught up in my thoughts. I confess, I did not.”

Javert’s mouth twisted in displeasure. “Shall I repeat it for you?”

“No, I think that your written report shall more than suffice. I – thank you. That will be all, Monsieur l’inspecteur. Please, have a good evening.”

Bowing hastily, Javert exited through the office doors and promptly disappeared, leaving Madeleine to grimace in his absence. Surely that had not played well with the inspector’s pride. He goes against Javert’s will in changing his pay, and now he insults him by completely ignoring his report. _You truly are a fool_ , Madeleine chastised. He took up the sheaths of paper that had been left behind and read them all in as much detail as possible – an easy penance that could not succeed in wiping away his failings.

*

“Will Monsieur l’inspecteur visit soon?”

Cosette clutched at Madeleine’s hand and swung on it, book nestled beneath her other arm. Studying had begun in earnest, and she delighted in telling her papa about all the wonderful things she knew.

Blinking into the morning sun, Madeleine sighed. “I do not know, my child. Maybe.”

“I like him,” she announced. “He is funny. He pulls all sorts of faces.”

“He can’t help the way his face is.”

“I was being nice!”

“Humph.”

“You look sad, papa.” When Madeleine looked down, the bright face of Cosette peered into his thoughts. “Did you have an argument with Monsieur Javert?”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“I heard you talking to mama. She did not sound very upset about it.”

Fantine had listened to Madeleine’s woes. True enough, she hadn’t understood his sadness at the loss of Javert as a friend. “The man is far too harsh for you, good Monsieur. I mean, it is possible you could mellow him, but I confess that I care far more for your joy than his.”

It was to be expected. Fantine had little trust in the police.

Raising his head to the sky, he watched the clouds, fearful that Cosette’s oft wry scrutiny might uncover more than he would like. Had Champmatheiu not died in his place such sadness would be unthinkable. Javert would be little more than a dangerous hound, that wolf of the bagne come to dig up his past and ruin him. Yet he was indeed sad. While it was not unthinkable that he could yet be uncovered, there was a new quality to his liberty…

“We are here, papa.”

Cosette had paused outside the plain school building, looking faintly irritated.

“Sorry, my child. I was merely thinking.”

She bounced into her gaggle of friends with only a quick squeeze of this hand, leaving Madeleine to walk the streets of his town distantly, mind deep within his business accounts. Javert was descending the steps of the police station and inclined his head only slightly as Madeleine doffed his hat, propriety demanding his response far more than any level of respect.

Madeleine frowned.

*

Passing the stables a few days later, Madeleine noticed the movement of a larger figure than the small stableboy. A new horse was resting in one of the cubicles – fine, sturdy, bowing its gentle head to allow its nose to be stroked and mane brushed.

Javert’s actions were slow, and thoughtful. He did not look _happy_ , per se, but certainly contented, the severe lines of his face less pronounced.

_Gymont_ , the sign above the stall read.

Facing away from the mayor, it seemed that Javert did not know he was being watched. All of his attention was absorbed in the care of the horse, which nuzzled into the inspector’s hand, a gesture of affection of which the human equivalent was denied him. Javert offered one of his rare laughs and produced an apple, which Gymont ate gratefully.

Madeleine watched all of this unfold with absolute fascination.

He did not need a horse, although he had been offered one. When he went out it was always on his own feet. The chill of winter, the balms of summer, the solidity of his gun in his hand on those occasions when he indulged his old predilection for (now legal) hunting… he did not often need a horse for such things. Javert, on the other hand, could do with one. The unfamiliar calm in his eyes spoke all the words that his mouth refused to admit.

*

There was a smart rap on the door.

Sitting at his desk in the mairie, Madeleine had been caught up in his accounts, and started at the sound. April was bringing its troubles in droves.

“Enter,” Madeleine replied, and raised his eyebrows at the sight he was met with.

Obviously very windswept, Javert struggled into a bow, one side of his collar lying flat and the other up. His hair was standing in multiple directions at once, giving an impression of great movement. Catching his breath, he managed to fold two gloved hands neatly at his torso, and took his usual position in front of the desk.

“Good evening, Monsieur l’inspecteur.”

“And to you, Monsieur le maire.”

There was a warm tone in Javert’s voice that made Madeleine smile. “You sound somewhat – exhilarated?”

“I was out riding on the border of town, Monsieur. I do apologise for the state of my dress, I realise it is not –“

“Don’t worry about it. I am glad that you are making use of the land.” Madeleine paused. “And, I daresay, the money.”

Javert looked at the ground. “Mm. Indeed.”

“Gymont, he is called?”

“That is correct.”

“A fine name.”

For a second, Javert seemed to struggle with a great internal battle, shaking his head and tapping his foot impatiently. “I…” His hands danced awkwardly around one another. “I suppose I should thank you. Monsieur.”

“I merely wished for things to be just. You need not offer me thanks.”

“Your actions were… kind, monsieur. But they were not just. No, it is far easier to be kind than it is to be just.” He sighed deeply, and Javert the man was distinguishable from Javert the inspector. “I appreciate that you acted out of goodness, for you are nothing if not good. However, it was an injustice.”

“Call me a fool, but I still struggle to see how.” Madeleine offered Javert a chair warily. “Explain it to me, if you will be so kind, monsieur.”

Taking a seat, Javert inclined his head. “There is an element of rivalry in the police force. In Paris, it can verge on cutthroat – Monsieur le Secretaire Chabouillet has not been in his position for long, and already there are those who would make eyes at it. I have no such aspirations. There is only so far that a man… like myself can rise, Monsieur. It is not in my nature to be behind the desk.”

_Like myself_ , Madeleine thought. He might have said the same of himself ten years ago, and Javert was far more respectable than Valjean.

“In any case,” Javert continued. “If anyone in the prefecture knows of that letter… it will reflect poorly upon me. We take the hand we are dealt. That is how it must be when one is in the business of the law, as Lady Justice demands great work of all of us.”

He rubbed at his face with the back of his palm. “Now I look a ninny.”

Madeleine dithered. Taking hold of the silence, he did what he trusted in – he brewed a cup of coffee. The moment grew in the space until he felt as though his lungs would burst from self-flagellation or unspoken words. A mug was thrust into Javert’s hands and he took it, initially raising his eyebrow but drinking it all the same.

“You are not a _ninny_ ,” Madeleine replied, sitting and staring into the empty fireplace. The syllables came out in staccato bursts. “To be so devoted, and to ask for so little. You cannot be a good policeman if you _starve_. I am sorry. I shouldn’t have asked without your permission. I was wrong, horribly so, and I regret it. I only hope you can forgive me, Monsieur, and if not then I can understand why.”

“I was not _starving_ ,” Javert insisted, but his naturally wiry frame couldn’t account for the extent of his thinness, nor the hollow of his cheeks that had deepened over the winter months.

“Then allow me to make you an offer.” Madeleine smiled, as honestly as he dared. “Dine with me. Once a week. On the night of your choosing. I will not force this upon you, and nor is it charity. Think of it as… hospitality. From one representative of the town to another.”

Hunger lit up in Javert’s eyes. He gazed steadily into his mug. “It is not charity?”

“No, Monsieur.”

“Then you will allow me to bring some food of my own to contribute.”

“Naturally.”

“And will the child be there?”

Madeleine paused. “If you wish for her to be. That is up to you.”

Drinking in the scent of the coffee, Javert smirked. “Then I am amenable. I suppose a Friday evening would make sense, as it is the night I give my report.”

“It would.” In spite of himself, Madeleine looked pleased. “Thank you, Javert.”

The inspector laughed in his typical bark. “I cannot hold a grudge forever, if that is what you are referring to. It would make my work intolerable.”  

“It would be my loss,” Madeleine replied quietly.

“… Well. Quite.” Obviously Javert did not know what to do with such a sentiment. He struggled in his chair and dipped his nose someway into his mug in thought. “Although many would disagree. Do you truly desire my companionship, or is this a Christian tendency towards universal clemency?”

“The former, of course. Would you accuse me of lying?” _You should._

“Of course not.” _I do._

With that clear, Madeleine clapped his hands together. “So. Friday at seven?”

The inspector inclined his head. “That would be agreeable.”

About a week later, Javert turned up on the mayor’s doorstep with a basket of rolls and a slight sneer. Madeleine accepted both as great gifts. He had already prepared his table with the finest cutlery and crockery that he owned, remembering how the bishop had brought out his valuable silver and lain six places, as though that wretched convict were an honoured guest. Bravely, he had set out his silver candlesticks in the middle of the table, beeswax candles suffusing the room with a honeyed scent.

Javert commented about making too much effort on his behalf, and Madeleine laughed. “Allow me to convince you that I am not wholly humble,” he said warmly. “Now sit, so we may eat, and I might know you better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Javert was actually 28 when he started at the bagne, but I shifted ages about a bit for... dramatic purposes. Also, if you haven't listened to Terrence Mann's performance of Javert, then you absolutely should. He sounds very young, which is hilarious until you get to his soliloquy, at which point it becomes, shall we say, upsetting.


	4. Man in Mourning

Jean Madeleine had not worn mourning clothes since the death of the bishop.

Those clothes had been donated to a family in need, and so these were new, never anticipating the need for them again. A large black coat complemented his top hat and its ring of black crape, exchanging his bright but shabby waistcoats for deep grey, eyes cast ever downward. This was partially out of deference to the man he had never met and out of self-consciousness. Stares followed him throughout his streets.

It was only appropriate. Enough months had passed than Javert would not connect his attire with the death of ‘Jean Valjean’, that poor sap who had looked so much like him that even the inspector could be fooled, although it was unfortunate that the month was May. Better by far to have mourned in February. Madeleine experienced some guilt in pushing away his duties simply in order to protect his own neck, but perhaps it would be a death in vain if he were caught now.

Everywhere he went it was with the name _Champmatheiu_ written in the black of his coat, written in the lines of his face, unspoken except with the Lord. In confession he said _I have done many things wrong_ and still could not vocalise them, although the priest wouldn’t try to draw out the truth. Even his weekly meals with the inspector (and, once or twice, Cosette) became temporarily frugal.

“Who am I to deny you your mourning?” Javert insisted one night, when Madeleine had apologised for the umpteenth time. “This is our… it is…” he couldn’t find the term, and frowned mulishly. “It is between yourself and I, and if you are fasting then it follows that I will join you in it.”

“Not all the time,” Madeleine reminded him.

“For this one night,” Javert muttered. “Or more.”

Fantine had pressed a hand to his arm one morning and asked, rather gently, if she or Cosette could do anything. “We can dress in black if it would give you company,” she offered. “I wouldn’t press you on the details, of course. I know it must be a good person, to have your attention.”

“You are too kind,” Madeleine insisted, shuffling against the unfamiliar material of his coat. “Let Cosette wear her bright colours. It brings great joy.”

*

“Could I have a copy of _Le Moniteur_ , if you’d be so kind?”

“I’m afraid not, Monsieur le maire. None left.”

Madeleine blinked, and shuffled out of the sunlight. “None left?”

“Sold out today. And yesterday. Didn’t know so many people in this town could read, I tell you. And it’s not all your usuals neither. Lots of people who’ve never bought a copy suddenly decided it was their day!” Resting on his stall, the shopkeeper shrugged. “Sorry, Pere Madeleine. You know I’d give you one free if I had it.”

“Not a problem, good sir.”

He stepped back, and was about to leave, when the shopkeeper coughed. “Say… you are alright, aren’t you? I know how it is. My mam…”

Guilt washed up to Madeleine’s toes and he nodded. “I am. It’s a private matter, although I appreciate your concern, of course. It’s…”

He couldn’t vocalise it. Perhaps if it had been family it would have been easier. Despite this, the shopkeeper appeared grave and lowered his head in apparent understanding, tracing circles into the grain of the wood. “I know Monsieur, I know.”

True enough, many heads were buried in papers when he exited the shop, a few furtive gazes following his motions. Had he managed to miss some great event? There hadn’t been another attempt at revolution, nor was the country doing anything particularly special… perhaps it was more local news. As a devoted mayor and businessman he had little time for knowing the goings-on of anything but his precious bubble of town and his factory. Occasionally he would take a glance at _Le Moniteur_ for the sake of being less ignorant, and that was all.

Well. Madeleine tapped his foot on the cobbles and frowned. Javert always read the paper – skipping over the ‘utter garbage’, as he had put it – so Madeleine would have to request to borrow his copy.

*

The police station was dead at night, save for the few shuffling bodies that had the misfortune of night patrols. One of them ghosted through the doors as Madeleine entered. “M’sieur le maire,” it mumbled politely, before disappearing down a side alley. Unfortunate soul.

Three lights blinked through the dark fog of the main foyer. One was its pathetic overhead lamp, usually unnecessary given the large windows that streamed sunlight through them in the daytime, not suited for the whole room. Making a mental note to invest more in the station’s necessities, Madeleine made for the shaft of yellow breaking through Javert’s office door. Hopefully the inspector would not mind a brief interruption of his duties. Even if he did, his tacit supplication to any demand of a superior would override his annoyance.

Madeleine knocked on the door, waited for Javert’s short reply, and entered.

He did not often see the man’s work space, but it was only marginally more personal than it had been at Christmas. Papers were stacked precariously high. An untouched mug was withering from loneliness on the corner of the desk, one nudge away from shattering. Ink had stained a large section of the wood and Javert was bent over it, cursing quietly and trying to dab it away with a bedraggled handkerchief. Whatever document he had been working on was quite ruined.

“Bon soir, Javert.”

Dropping his handkerchief, Javert pulled himself up and bowed, sighing. Black was running rivers along his fingers, lakes of it growing on one white cuff. “Monsieur le maire. My profound apologies. It seems I am in something of a state tonight.”

Their stilted meals had tempered Javert’s sense of propriety a touch, and Madeleine smiled. “You need not apologise, inspector. I have certainly done such a thing before. It is a shame I do not have a ‘kerchief on me, or I would offer it.”

“I would not take it,” Javert said, not unkindly. “It is alright. Have you need of me, Monsieur? This can wait.”

“Oh.” Madeleine glanced over the organised chaos of the papers. “I simply wondered if you might have a copy of _Le Moniteur_ that I could borrow. There were none left this morning.”

“Indeed? Well, of course you may, Monsieur. It is in my –“ Javert paused at an unseen drawer and paused, blinking at his hands. “Ah. Perhaps you might want to get it yourself. I will merely stain it.”

“Thank you,” Madeleine chuckled, and walked over. He extracted the paper from a stiff drawer and noted the uncomfortable shift of the inspector as they bumped into one another slightly. Stepping back, he skimmed over the headlines, a knot of confusion settling in his chest. “Hm.”

“An uninteresting offering, is it not?”

“Quite.” There were no great events to spur the interest of the town. “How queer.”

Looking up from the printed words, he caught Javert’s eye, the inspector once again hunched over his stained desk. “That was my thought, Monsieur.” Javert’s gaze grew clever. “It seems strange. It is usually not such popular reading. Unless there is some great secret that neither of us know about…”

“I would be surprised if there is any secret that you do not know, Javert.”

The inspector paused at that, and offered a wry smile without teeth. “As would I. It seems I must look into this. If there is a reason to be found, then you will know of it, Monsieur le maire.”

*

Low mass was heaving.

Nobody would deny the mayor his usual place, of course, although he would most gladly have given it up. Fantine clutched Cosette close. Bodies pressed in on every side. Mass was a busy affair by its nature, but never had it been full to bursting, not even on Christmas morning. While Madeleine knew he should be delighted by it (and was, he told himself, he _was_ ) a prick of irritation settled in his gut and would not shift. He tried to think of Champmatheiu and found that his mind was firmly set upon the man next to him and his constant shuffling. Eyes that usually focused on the divine sacrament found themselves settling on a young woman who sniffled and coughed throughout. He knelt after communion and the usual elevation of his soul was destroyed thoroughly by Fantine whispering apologetically that she needed to get Cosette outside.

Was the whole town drenched in some unknown sin? Had every man suddenly decided to know God? Had it anything to do with that bizarre newspaper?

To his surprise, he exited the church to find Cosette babbling at Javert, Fantine warily amused. On any other day Madeleine would stop to talk to members of the congregation, yet now was not in the mood. Instead he stretched into the early morning light and joined his family.

“Bon matin, Monsieur l’inspecteur. Good to see you here.” Madeleine gave a harried smile and ruffled Cosette’s hair. “Any occasion?”

Cocking his head to the side, Javert shrugged. “And to you, Monsieur. It was reported that there was an unusual number of attendants to this service, so I thought it prudent to check for any abnormalities.” Cosette was tugging at Madeleine’s trousers, and Javert frowned at her. “It seems that all is well.”

“We were talking about Paris,” Cosette piped. “It sounds so fantastic, papa!”

Fantine and Javert gave twin expressions of apology. “She asked about his work,” Fantine supplied. “The best stories are from the capital, it would seem.”

“Montreuil is quiet,” Javert muttered. “Paris is not.”

“We must go see it!” Cosette insisted.

A landowner hovering close by, obviously wanting to talk, and Madeleine felt the hints of irritation bloom into a well of frustration. “Maybe one day, my child,” he said, blandly. “Are you well?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Too many people. Got too warm.”

“I am inclined to agree,” he replied. “I should go socialise. My apologies. I will see you for lunch, if you would like that?”

“Always.” Fantine paused. She was lovely in the morning light, and Madeleine’s mood was momentarily lifted. “We will see you at home, then.”

“Until then.” They shuffled into the dissipating crowd. Madeleine sighed, and realised that the inspector was still there, watching him silently. “Javert. Sorry. I was going to ask. Have you had any luck with our ‘mystery’?”

Peering about him, Javert hummed “I have an idea, Monsieur. The town has been strange, as of late, and I am fairly sure I know why. Fairly. I shall – tell you at our next meal, perhaps.” One gloved hand moved as though to rest on Madeleine’s arm, and thought better of it. “It is well that nothing was amiss here. Making arrests so close to a church is unpleasant.”

“You have done that?”

“Many a criminal hides from punishment by hiding on holy ground.” Javert’s dry tone was not particularly cruel, yet a lick of embarrassment made Valjean flush. “It is an easy matter. One simply waits until the perpetrator believes himself safe. Sometimes the priest guards them, in which case, well – nothing can be done about that.”

Before Madeleine could reply, a hand gloved in crushed velvet settled upon his coat. Embarrassment and frustration swilled around the glass of Madeleine’s stomach and settled into resignation as he realised that it was the landowner he had intended to talk with. Impatience had obviously overridden the man’s resolve. With an apologetic shrug, Madeleine bowed to Javert. “Many apologies, I must talk to this good sir.”

“As is right,” Javert replied.

Proper, perhaps. Right? Madeleine watched as the inspector also shuffled into the throng and melted away, so fantastically talented at shifting into the shadows when it was needed. He realised that a fair number of the crowd had taken to watching him and he turned to talk to his new companion, smiling so politely that it verged upon indecent.

*

“Your handwriting is beautiful.”

Leaning over Fantine’s modest personal desk, Madeleine pored over the papers there. Cursive alphabets gazed frankly back at him, at first shakily, then with ever greater confidence as the ink grew bolder and the writer more sure. Fantine was sitting back in her chair, obviously worn but proud. “It has taken much work, Madeleine.”

“And you have been reading?”

“Every day. Yet I am still only at Exodus!”

“The Bible is no short document,” Madeleine laughed. “You are doing fantastically, my dear friend. I remember when I was in your position.”

Fantine gave him an odd sideways glance. “My position?”

“It is through books that I have improved myself, once. I purchased every classical work and every book of philosophy that I could find.” Still admiring her letters, Madeleine sighed. “I became thoroughly wound up in Aristotle.”

“It sounds dreadful.”

“It _is_ dreadful. I - hm. Have you thought, Fantine, about what you might like to do now you are growing well?”

Tapping her fingers on the wood, she sighed. “I should like to be a proper mother to Cosette, but she has school in the day… I suppose I could be a secretary.”

“I would hire you… I merely fear –“

“It would be inappropriate. As friends.” In the distance, a bell tolled three, and Madeleine startled. It was time to collect Cosette. Fantine considered her slender white wrists with regret. “Go,” she said softly. “I’m sure there will be a position open somewhere around here. If not then I shall teach Cosette. It is not as though we are poor any longer.”

Shuffling the black crape on his hat, Madeleine nodded. “Whatever you choose will be admirable, Fantine.”

She smiled. Her chestnut hair was pulled back with a pink ribbon, plain dress sitting comfortably around a healthy frame, wise eyes sparkling. Emaciated fingers and palms had rounded out to beautifully formed hands. Taking up her pen, she curved a perfect _M_ onto the creamy page in front of her. “Perhaps I could write your letters, Monsieur. Just to pass the time.”

“That would be very dull.” He offered a hand in farewell. “Cosette will no doubt have much to tell you.”

Fantine nodded. She turned back, and squinted in concentration.

_a._

*

Madeleine took to eating black bread.

Initially, he had always eaten poorer bread, because it saved money that could be used for the poor and because he found it to be an appropriate part of his lifelong penance. Only when he became mayor had he started buying white – wealthy tongues wagged whenever he behaved in the manner of a peasant, although he carried no shame from his background. It was simply easier. Having to oblige by society’s expectations of a magistrate culled many of his more pious habits, leaving those which were actively helpful and challenging the more personal. Alms-giving he refused to drop, as with his expenditure of money on the town. Black bread, few outfits, few meals – these things were no longer his to decide upon.

Mourning, to his embarrassment, allowed him to live as humbly as he desired. On a morning he would pass the bakery, buy a fresh loaf, and take it with him to the factory to use for lunch. The foreman raised his eyebrows the first time he entered with black bread under his arm rather than white, but knew to say nothing of it. Unlike the previous foreman, the man had great tact.

After a week he noticed that more eyes were following his ascent to his office than usual, and thought nothing of it. Perhaps it was because of the new black coat, which was in far better shape than his green one. Women’s curiosities baffled him.

*

Angry hammering woke Madeleine from a fitful slumber and he hurried down the stairs clad only in his nightgown, hair a shock.

Fumbling in the darkness, he eventually found the doorknob, and the town baker practically fell on top of him in his continued assault on the door. “What is the meaning of this!” Madeleine cried, catching a flying fist midway through its arc.

“ _Stop eating black bread!”_ The balding baker took no notice of Madeleine’s state of dress, similarly clothed and plainly desperate.

“I – what -?”

“Nobody is buying my white bread!” Tired out, the man rested against the doorframe and wiped at his brow. “You have created a fashion, Monsieur le maire, and I am making pittance! I _beg_ you, please, I have children to feed and they cannot live on bread – “

Thinking on it, Madeleine realised that there _had_ been far more white loaves on display as of late, leftovers from previous days that would usually be bought immediately. How bizarre. It was wrong, but he almost chuckled. “I promise, tomorrow I will go and purchase your finest loaf. I am so sorry, Monsieur, if I had known…”

An hour later Madeleine once again retired to bed, having offered some tea and hospitality to his late night guest. Apparently the baker had been incapable of sleep for some nights and finally snapped, taking flight to the mayor’s humble lodgings with no thought in his mind other than his meagre earnings. _And so I am forced out of humility_ , Madeleine mused, dousing his candle between thumb and forefinger. _The Lord truly works in a mysterious manner._

True to his word, Madeleine walked to the bakery at first light and purchased the most grandiose loaf there was on display. Fantine raised her eyebrows at it when he stumbled into her house and dropped it onto the table, Cosette crowing delightedly at the promise of good food. “I had to buy it,” he explained breathlessly. “I cannot eat it – please, you have it.”

“You cannot…? Uh, if you insist, Madeleine.”

Cosette cheered.

*

A half-drowned man appeared at Madeleine’s door on Friday night.

Javert stared rather pathetically from the wooden doorway, hat stuffed under one arm, bangs and whiskers drooping. The grey wool of his coat had soaked to black. “I don’t have a parapluie,” he said stiffly, casting his eyes from Madeleine’s concerned gasp. “I forgot to buy one, now that I have the means. Pray – please say you have a fire, Monsieur le maire.”

Pleasantries wholly forgotten, the mayor ushered in his inspector, taking his greatcoat once Javert had fumbled to undo its weighty buttons. The wet wool felt greasy beneath his fingers. Gesturing for Javert to take his usual seat, he took one of his wooden chairs and settled the coat along the back of it, facing the fire, puddle already forming on the floorboards. “I did not think,” Madeleine said. “I assumed you would not come here in this if you didn’t have something to protect you.”

Javert had drawn into himself. Without his greatcoat he seemed far smaller, white shirt darned in several places, black cravat preserving his sense of modesty. His hat was dripping by his foot.

“I must give my report,” Javert replied, and then winced. “Ah. The notes were… in my coat…”

“Just tell me the most important parts. And you need not stand – I can hear you just as well as I get the food out.” Pulling out his finer plates, Madeleine gave a general gesture of invitation, and Javert scowled.

“Very well, Monsieur.” At that, Javert began on a less clipped and far more rambling version of the week’s events. Three robberies, all fairly minor, two thieves apprehended and one still at large. A woman at the docks had been set upon by a local miscreant, but a newer recruit had stopped the assault before it could begin. Fifteen complaints had been forwarded to the police about the amount of noise coming from a house near to the factory. Mme.Duvel had slapped M.Escharpe over a comment about her drains. Whispers of a potential gang in the area had grown to fever pitch. Javert’s tales were punctuated with witticisms and a selection of less important details that made them far more entertaining, if not necessarily helpful.

“I think that is all,” he concluded, eyeing the broth and dripping potatoes that Madeleine was dishing onto his plate. “I regret that I did not bring any contributions. There _were_ some sliced apricots, only, the rain –“

“Do not worry.” Settling himself down to eat, Madeleine grinned. “I think you should discard with your notes every week. That was a fine account.”

He left Javert to colour with indignation as he prayed a silent grace.

“You are – “ Javert began, but whatever Madeleine was, it could not be spoken aloud by someone of his station. Instead the inspector funnelled potato into his mouth at a suspiciously fast pace, face working the line between annoyance and mollification. “Mm. This is good. Thank you, Monsieur.”

“Thank the butter.”

“Milkmaids get enough thanks,” Javert deadpanned, and smirked at Madeleine’s scandalised cough. “In any case, I will continue with my notes, if only for police writeup.” At that, he began to systematically demolish his meal.

“Any words from Paris as of late, inspector?”

“Not many, no. The sûreté is disgustingly successful, but this is Paris, so crime is constant. Be glad you have not lived there, Monsieur, it is a fantastic city with a million vermin in its bowels.” Twirling his knife in his hand like a baton, Javert paused, gaze distant. “Yes. I remember uncovering an cradle-napping operation, dressed up as an orphanage. Some of the children had quite forgotten their parents.”

“How awful.” To think of someone stealing Cosette… Madeleine set his cutlery down for a moment, suddenly nauseated.

“Mm. It was a blasted nuisance trying to sort it out. The woman we arrested wept the whole time, as though the children were hers. Barren, no doubt.”

“Poor woman.”

“Tch. Poor children.” Javert paused. “Ah. I just remembered. I looked into our mystery, Monsieur.”

“Oh, indeed?” Starting to eat again, Madeleine smiled in spite of himself. “Do tell.”

“Well.” In a moment of dramatics, Javert paused, and considered Madeleine closely. “The answer, Monsieur, lies with you.”

“Me?” Madeleine asked, bemused.

“You.” Javert laughed his terrible laugh. “It is really very simple. It is because you are in mourning, Monsieur, and people cannot fathom who for. Usually a death in the area is fairly well known, unless the person is a peasant. Assuming that you would not be mourning a nameless labourer, there has been rather obsessive scouring of the obituary section. And likely the same with our unnaturally packed churches – it is because there were no reported passings in the newspaper. It sparks curiosity.”

Even Javert couldn’t hide his own intrigue behind his stoic gaze, and Madeleine sighed. “It wouldn’t be,” he said, carefully. “They were Danish.”

Usually, Madeleine operated in half-truths. They were much easier to keep hold of, line up in your mind, fundamentally _true_ but light on the honest details. In the case of Champmatheiu, he had found no way to create a half-truth. Admitting that he was honouring the death of a bagnard was suspicious at best, monstrously damning at worst, so a bald lie was his only remaining option. Better just to keep silent where possible and hope that his people would respect his right to privacy.

“Family?” Javert asked.

“Friend.”

“I’m sure many would be glad to know that you have any friends,” Javert replied drolly, then shook his head. “I am taking liberties, aren’t I, Monsieur le maire? I apologise for my rudeness.”

“You are quite right,” Madeleine laughed.

“You are a solitary soul.”

“I have Cosette, and Fantine, and yourself – if I may say so, inspector. I am not so solitary as all that.”

Javert hummed. “You may say so.” He sounded unusually pleased. “I would not deny you that, Monsieur le maire.”

“And if I were not the mayor?”

“I… would still not deny you.” Evidently these words were a tough admission for the inspector. He became incredibly invested in his glass of wine, considering its plum hue with unnecessary interest, one finger trailing along the curves of the glass and leaving a translucent smear. “I am not accustomed to friendship. That is the appropriate state for someone of my position.”

“No job is meant to be so lonesome as all that –“

“It is lonesome all the same.” Plate wiped clean, Javert settled his cutlery down. “Whoever they were, I’m sure they were a fine man. Certainly they must have been if they had your friendship, Monsieur.”

Whatever Champmatheiu had been like as a man, he had died a martyr. Guilt washed up on the shore of Madeleine’s heart. He had spent days in mourning and yet his mind was not compliant, so often caught up in Fantine’s learning and Cosette’s nattering and Javert’s wit. Church had become a matter of avoiding being crushed rather than paying respects to the Lord and offering remembrance. Only guilt sat in the nook of his heart and burned at all hours... it was so easy. To mourn, one was supposed to feel grief, and while Madeleine did it was dulled by the many distractions and joys of his life. Well, now he was certainly grieved.

“He was a good man,” Madeleine eventually said.

Usually, Javert would have left after the meal, bowing and scraping and starting to look faintly bored at the whole performative ordeal. Tonight Madeleine felt uncommonly lonely, and he offered the inspector a drinking glass. “Do you drink whisky, inspector?”

Javert stared at the offending item as though it were a snake. “No. My only vice is snuff, Monsieur le maire.”

“You should try some. It is rather bracing. Besides, it is still raining, and your coat will not yet have dried. Sit with me by the fire.”

A moment passed in which Javert seemed to move to decline, before inclining his head and taking the glass. Moving the chair with the coat out of the way, Madeleine offered Javert the comfier chair before the fire and pulled his sole bottle of whiskey from the mantel, pouring out a measure of its liquid gold out for himself and for the inspector, who sniffed at it uncertainly. “It smells like nothing I’ve ever known,” Javert muttered suspiciously.

“It tastes the way it smells,” Madeleine replied.

Taking this with poor grace, Javert tipped a few drops onto his tongue, expression flickering through emotions like the pages of a book. Eventually it settled upon surprise. “Oh,” he croaked. “I see.” Daringly, he pulled a little more, mouth curling around the taste.

“I don’t often drink, but I enjoy this.” Settling into his seat, Madeleine sipped at his own glass and shut his eyes. “You’ll be more than warm enough to brave the weather when you’re done.”

“Indeed,” the inspector muttered. They sat together in the quiet for some time, a flush spreading across their cheeks from the warmth and the teasing fingers of the alcohol, Javert’s initial distrust seeping away. Rain provided a quiet chorus of voices outside, growing weaker. Sparks licked up the flue.

Madeleine turned. “The strangest thing happened the other day,” he said. “Apparently the people of town had started eating black bread because I was doing so. The baker turned up in the middle of the night and almost punched me in the nose.”

“Indeed?”

“Indeed. It was quite a thing. I bought his finest loaf the next morning.”

“Perhaps they were trying to join you,” Javert mused over his glass of whisky. “When the mayor mourns, the town should mourn also.”

Madeleine stared at Javert. The thought of it was delightful. That the town of Montreuil should mourn for Champmatheiu, the town that had innocently kept Madeleine’s attention, a collection of hearts remembering the man with Valjean’s face even if they did not know of it. It was beautiful, it moved his soul to think of that suffering –

“Monsieur,” Javert said awkwardly. “Please – please do not weep.”

Valjean dabbed at his eyes. “I am so sorry, Javert, it is not right for you to… in any case, I hope that you are correct.”

“I am fairly sure of it. Montreuil is appallingly saccharine when it comes to its esteemed mayor.” _Myself included_ , Javert did not say, and Madeleine wondered if he would have, if pressed.

“Thank you.” Madeleine’s voice was rich with gratitude and Javert became fascinated with his drink again. “For coming, also.”

“But – this is how we give reports, now.” Javert blinked. “It is hardly proper and yet, if it is what you desire… I must thank _you_ , Monsieur, for your damnable kindness.”

“You give a lonely man some company. That is worth something.” For once, Valjean looked upon Javert and saw absolutely nothing of Toulon. Rumpled white fabric and the slightly inebriated gloss of the inspector’s cheeks rendered him unrecognisable. An inscrutable feeling came over Valjean. “I am glad you are here,” he whispered.

Perhaps he was a touch affected by his drink.  

“I should be going, Monsieur l’maire. It’s late ‘nd I have morning patrol.” Javert yawned. Unsteady fingers clutched at the coat by the fire and settled the empty glass on the mantel, drawing the wool around him like a second skin, recognisable once more. Well, save for the definite vulnerability in his equally woolly gaze. He looked like a tired child.

“Take my parapluie,” Madeleine said quietly. He stretched into a standing position and saw the inspector to the door, thrusting the umbrella into waiting palms, alongside the top hat that had left a decently sized pool next to the dining table.

“Gloves, scarves, umbrellas…” Javert sighed. “It seems I have been tricked into accepting the very charity I didn’ want. You’re a sneaky man, M’sieur.”

“I’m awful,” Madeleine chuckled. “Have a pleasant night, my good inspector.”

“Thank you again,” Javert mumbled, and dropped into an approximation of his usual bow. “And you too, m’sieur.”

*

Testing the unlocked church door, Madeleine wandered onto holy ground, mutely enjoying the flickering of the few candles and the rich scent of oak. Rarely did he go to church in the night, yet he had felt – compelled. Two candlesticks were sitting either side of the central crucifix and he strode to kneel before it, hands clasping without direction to do so. Twin tears streaked along his cheeks.

A great peace descended upon him.

“May he rest in your gaze, Lord.” Valjean shook his head. “I am a poor mourner. I thought of a million other things when I meant to think only upon this sacrifice. Were that he had not died in my place!”

Jesus’ heavenly countenance considered him with no judgement.

“Thank you,” he gasped. “Thank you for – for all of this. I never thought to know joy, and it overwhelms me. I know guilt, and that overwhelms me also, but the joy…”

The good God seemed to touch him then. He fell onto his face in delight and in sorrow, and knew that Champmatheiu was at the side of the Lord. Great tremors ran races through his bones. Broken sobs choked him of air as his knees bit into the stones, tears slipping down his nose and falling to the floor. Slowly, surely, the shaking and the sobs subsided.

Valjean rose from his cradled foetal position. He looked into the eyes of God, and he offered an exhausted smile, knowing himself blest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i write this in between reading painfully dense philosophy for my uni essays so its probably horribly disjointed lmao  
> also if you wanna know what Javert looks like I have drawn him here: https://adventureswiththebrick.tumblr.com/post/166194159596/inspector-javert-first-class
> 
> thats my les mis blog and i post my art there from time to time


	5. Je Suis Célibataire

Monsieur Brackley had died two years ago, and since then his widow, Madame Brackley, had been a cause for much concern among the bachelors of Montreuil.

Firstly, there was the fact that she was English. This was not a problem, far from it, but it did mean that she was rather different to the French ladies about town. Her freedom from the constraints of her blood relations across the water meant that she spoke with surprising wit, challenged the men when it was least expected, batted her eyes at the wealthy or the powerful in the hope of improving her widowed status. Frankly, it was well that Monsieur Brackley had passed – he had been a rather dull and fantastically rich man. It left Madame Brackley to attend parties in horrendous dresses and enjoy herself.

Secondly, Madame Brackley was notoriously hard to please. The thin, ghostly bourgeois did nothing for her. Each night she would flounce about on the arm of a harassed young man and thoroughly outdo him in every way. “They have nothing to them,” she was known to say, which did not look favourably upon her late husband, who had been equally indistinct and colourless.

Madeleine was well acquainted with the good woman. He had heard much of her exploits via unwanted gossip, including mentions of plans to woo ‘ _that tough catch’._ Madeleine had always hoped that it did not mean himself. True enough, he did not fit the usual picture of success – he was not pale, he did not have any especial lineage, his skin was ruddy and his shoulders broad enough to carry a horse. The dark curls that were gently greying at the roots did not sit neatly upon his head, curling and twisting eagerly in different directions, tamed only by his hat. Perhaps it was what she found attractive.

She would not be the first.

Ascending the steps to the manor house, Madeleine shivered. It was not cold; on the contrary, the June evening was impeccably sweet. Far too sweet to decline the invitation to dine with the good Madame as he had done for so long, citing work with the factory or in the Mairie as feeble excuses. Now he had no work. He had no work, he had no excuse, and the thriving flowers along the manor were straining to emulate a romance novel.

“Ah, Monsieur le maire.” A private butler had appeared at the door, peering into the half-dark. “An honour to see you here. I shall inform Madame of your arrival – if you would follow me.”

Crooking a bottle of wine under his arm, Madeleine entered the manor. Javert had chosen the bottle. Once he heard of the invite, he had laughed glacially for a good minute and then immediately had begun to list the finer drinks one could bring to a dinner party. “This is not to cast doubts upon your tastes, Monsieur,” he had noted. “It is merely the case that I have lived in Paris, and I have looked at Gisquet, which frankly is enough to learn all you could want.”

The interior of the house was veritably palatial. It upset Madeleine. Great displays of wealth always did. Why bother with it, when one could offer charity?

He had also voiced this concern with Javert and had been called a damned Bonapartist, although he couldn’t fathom the link between the two. Still, the insult had pleased him. It meant that the inspector was truly loosening up in his presence, and the smile that graced him made Javert colour deeply, and then look truly insulted.

“The dining room is in here, Monsieur.” Bowing, the butler opened an unnecessarily large door. “Monsieur le maire has arrived.”

A table covered in food stretched out into the distance. Twenty distinguished heads all turned to see him, and Madeleine wanted to shrink into his coat and disappear. Fantine would be having dinner with Cosette at this time, talking to her about the nice man who had given her some part time work in letter writing. Cosette would read out from her books and grin and try to make her tongue touch her nose.

“So good of you to join us, Monsieur Madeleine.” Madame Brackley had risen from her seat and floated over, looking only slightly less like a bauble than she had at Christmas. “I thought the day would never come.”

“My apologies, Madame. I am a very busy man,” he replied honestly, and offered her the wine. “A gift.”

Taking it with a greedy hand, she turned over the bottle. “How fine. You have a good taste.”

 _Javert has a good taste,_ Madeleine thought, and allowed himself to be steered into a chair next to two perfect strangers, only one seat away from the hostess. _To think, they would shun me if they knew the truth of my past._ He shivered. _More than shun._

Even the poor had abused him when he had been travelling on parole. Lower than the dogs, too degraded even for a stable, yet here he sat with the upper classes, drinking their wine, offered their food. Another reason to despise parties – it reminded him of his lies. Never would Monsieur Madeleine truly be meant for the life he enjoyed. Jean Valjean couldn’t allow him that. Unless, by some magic of the brain, he were to forget, and the scars along his back miraculously healed…

Conversation was light, meaningless, directionless. Glasses clicked together and cutlery created a private din. To Madeleine’s left, two grey-haired men bickered amicably about the state of the crops this year. To his right, a keen young lady talked at length with Mme.Brackley, whose discerning gaze did not rest upon her conversational partner but upon the mayor.

“Enjoying the meal, Monsieur le maire?”

Madeleine jumped at the sudden question, and was forced to meet the clever eyes that had been scrutinising his motions. “Certainly,” he replied quietly.

“You are not talking overmuch. Are you quite sure this is to your taste?”

“I am a pensive man.” Twisting his fork with subtle anxiety, Madeleine smiled. “I beg you, take no offence. I merely find it easy to become trapped in my thoughts.”

“Too many people, then?” The young lady to his right (whose name he had abashedly forgotten) primly nibbled at some unidentifiable leaf.

“Ah – perhaps –“

“I should very much like to speak to you, Monsieur.” Nonchalance wholly feigned, Mme. Brackley smiled thinly, tiger bearing down upon prey. “Maybe we should see each other some other night, when there is less company?”

“That would be lovely,” Madeleine said miserably. “Although my own home would surely not be to your tastes.”

“So I hear.” A finger circling the edge of her glass, Mme.Brackley pursed her lips. “They used to say that nobody had ever been in your home, although that’s not so true anymore, with that new inspector about. He visits rather a lot.”

“It is our way of giving reports –“

“I thought as much. It seemed strange to seek out the company of an inspector, of all people. I cannot imagine what you talk about.”

 _Many things, more enjoyable than this,_ Madeleine thought, and he shoved food into his mouth in order to keep himself from talking.

“And there is that child,” she continued, carefully. “The little girl.”

“Cosette,” he supplied.

“Cosette. How sweet. Ah, yes, I remember seeing her at the winter ball, all dressed up. She _is_ a dear child. And her mother, what is your relation…?”

“Her mother was taken very ill, and I offered to help. They are – I suppose they are both my wards.” He disliked the gleaming question in her expression. Fantine was young, very young, and he was an older man by far. Besides the fact that he had no interest in Fantine other than in their companionable friendship, it struck him as wrong to take someone so much younger as a wife. Or, as it would be in this case, a mistress. Of all the vices to suspect him of!

Still. This answer obviously pleased the woman, because she sat back and allowed a playful smirk to cross her lips.

*

“So.”

Standing at the foot of the steps, Madeleine tried to suppress his sigh. “So, Madame?”

She tapped her fingers expectantly on her arm.

“Right. A band of players is visiting town in a week or so. If you would care to join me.” Every word from Madeleine’s mouth was fundamentally dishonest and it made him wince. Not necessarily _false_ , not _untrue_ , just unwilling.

 “I would be delighted. Write me the other details, and I shall see to it that I am present. Thank you, Monsieur Madeleine.”

“ _Bonne nuit,_ Madame.”

“ _Bonne nuit.”_

The fiacre only took Madeleine to the outskirts of town, which suited him well enough. Air and motion gave his thoughts the space to breathe. It could not last too long. He had vaguely entertained a few of the town’s more persistent women and they never enjoyed the brief pursuit. Upon discovering that he lived like a church mouse and that he was more devoted to the Lord than he ever would be a wife, they discreetly moved on and spread rumours about his poverty and his peasant sensibilities. That was hardly an insult. He was a businessman, he had an eye for the entrepreneurial and an eye for the good God, he had no need of luxury. With a child in tow, this could not last.

Unless it made him look caring. Hm.

A sound startled him from his thoughts. Still walking along the town walls, he shifted into the shadows, watching as a horse rounded the corner and ran at full pelt along the cobblestone. Javert must have been entirely caught up in his riding for he did not notice the mayor peering up at him from the gloom, racing past in one swooping motion. What Madeleine caught of Javert’s expression was savage and euphoric. _At least_ he _is enjoying his night_ , Madeleine thought, mood sour. _Would that I had only to answer to a horse._

He found himself quite alone again. He walked agitatedly.

Was it good looks? Never before had Madeleine had reason to suspect that he was of blest appearance. Toulon robbed that of people, much like everything else. Some of the prisoners had arrived and been fair of face, proud, distressed by the casaque rouge and their unflattering caps. Gradually, their beauty had warped and twisted, until they looked as worn and corrupt as the oldest bagnard did.

Pausing to peer into a darkened window, he caught sight of his reflection. His jaw was still stubbornly wide, his eyes too dark, nose too prominent. Heaven only knew what he had looked like in the bagne – heaven and Javert, who he could not ask of it.

Madeleine frowned.

*

“Am I handsome, Javert?”

Javert choked on his wine and it dribbled down his chin unattractively. He appeared to be in great distress. “Are you – handsome, Monsieur?”

Gazing unhappily into the fire, Madeleine fished blindly in his pockets for a handkerchief and offered it to the inspector, who took it without a pause. “I know it is a strange question,” Madeleine sighed. “But it is a genuine one.”

“Has a woman said something? If there has been any insult, Monsieur, then…”

“No insult.”

“In which case…” Javert stared into his wine as though it held the secrets to the universe. “Well, I would say so. Monsieur. I have no particular powers of observation in the field of beauty, yet I am certain you qualify for being handsome.”

“Hm. Thank you.” Madeleine said nothing more, and he did not turn his gaze from the flames.

*

Shifting through the crowd, Madeleine found himself faintly frantic at his inability to find her. Coming off as rude didn’t sit well on his conscience, even if he was playing along to a large extent, and the potential for his social standing to suffer –

“Monsieur le maire, are you quite alright?”

Turning, Madeleine found himself face to face with Madame Brackley, her lips twisted with amusement. She was dressed rather too well for an open air performance amongst everyone who wished to watch, but she curved her dress away from the crowd expertly. For once it did not resemble an ornament. “You look lost,” she said.

“I was looking for you, Madame.” He bowed politely, and offered his arm. “My apologies.”

“Oh, it’s quite fine.” Allowing herself to be led, the people parted and they moved closer to the stage. A rickety wooden thing had been semi-expertly constructed on the open cobbles of the dock. Given that the waters were long gone, and most construction work happened further into the town, it was an ideal location to avoid the noise of the everyday.

Madeleine was lost in his thoughts. The day had already been long – an hour of dodging Fantine’s questions about his ‘meeting’ as they worked on plans for the factory was exhausting work. If only the woman weren’t so sharp. She simultaneously managed to draw up ideas for improving health and atmosphere within the business while also prying apart his anxious mood. Initially, she’d assumed it had something to do with Javert. Finding that line of enquiry lead nowhere, Fantine asked seemingly innocent but notably pointed questions about the play.

“Here seems good,” he said absently, settling close enough to the stage that they could see.

“So rarely do I get to see a play,” she muttered. “And it is early Schiller! _Die Räuber_ is perhaps not your usual fare for a traveling band, but I make no complaint.“

Of _course_ the play that they were performing was ‘The Robbers‘. Valjean’s deeply rooted discomfort quailed at his foolishness. When inviting Madame he had quite forgotten, and the harsh jab of irony in his gut was not lost on him. “I confess, I did not expect a German play.“

She laughed. He noted that her behaviours were far less predatory outside of her own home.

 _Die Räuber_ did not surprise. Already brash by nature, the players performed it with excess zeal, booming the words so that the back of the crowd could hear about normally and the front of the crowd was deafened. The tallest actor swung his arms about in what he must have thought to be great dramatic motion, looking only like an awkward and overlarge bird. Still, the play was enjoyable enough from the position where the pair were standing. Much to Madeleine’s relief, he saw nothing of himself in the characters of Karl or Franz, both of whom were aristocratic and deeply flawed. The only thing that troubled Madeleine’s heart was Karl’s eventual capitulation to the law, which he only hoped and prayed was not some sign.

“Hm.“ Madame Brackley clicked her tongue as the applause died down and the gathering slowly dissipated. “I have seen better, I have seen worse.“

“Never have I watched it performed,“ Madeleine admitted, “only heard of it in conversation.“

“Did it fulfil your expectations?“

“Well. It was certainly very German.“ The laugh this elicited suggested that he had said the right thing. “I wish that he had not killed Amalia.“

“Deep love oft does end in tragedy.“ Words careless, she stretched easily into the sun. “I hunger. We should eat.“

“I’m afraid you would find my home unsuitable,“ he said quietly. “I would not wish to discomfort you.“

“I have lived in London.“ Waving one hand, she rolled her eyes. “A peasant home in France is nothing. Please, I am terribly curious.“

“You confess it? Nobody else will.“

“The women here have no strength of personality.“ She scoffed. “Nor do they in England. Well, if you would indulge me, then I would be interested in seeing where you live. And eat,“ she added as an afterthought.

 _I can hardly deny you,_ Madeleine thought, and offered his arm. “It is not too far from here.“

Allowing her to talk easily on the play and her opinions (which were many, and frequently were cruel to the actors) Madeleine walked them through the streets. This was a deciding hour. Rarely could his would-be-damsels abide the sight of his home – none entered, always making excuses and disappearing for months until they reappeared, magically and apologetically, on another man’s arm. Turning onto his street, he admired once again the row of humble houses. Simplicity served him better than any mansion.

“We are here,“ he said quietly, leading the way to the first house of the set.

No reply came. Deep relief coursed through his veins. _Now_ , surely, she would struggle to hide her expression of distaste, mention some conveniently forgotten affair to be tended to –

He turned to gauge her expression and his heart sank. Instead of distaste he found interest. Curiosity. Even, to his growing horror, a certain respect. “How quaint,“ she said, with new tenderness. “And your wards live next door?“

“They do.“

“How people exaggerate. Why, this is rather sweet. So much less work than a manor house or a mansion. You are clever, Monsieur le maire! Shall we enter?“

One final test. Opening the door graciously, he traced her floating motions as she ghosted over warped floorboards. Her eyes drank in the room. Everything was touched by her gaze – the table with its four chairs, the silver candlesticks sitting upon it, the cupboards, counters and oven lining the far wall. While the fireplace was empty in the summer it brightened as she regarded it with warmth. She looked over his home as one might a dear friend.

“There is a bedroom and such upstairs, I take it?“

“It is as you say,“ he replied miserably.

“Heavens knows why Mme.Pelletier was so offended. This room has more character than her awful house in its entirety. _So_ many chandeliers. Although, I suppose she never came in. They never do.”

“The exterior scares them away,” Madeleine chuckled. Discomfort sat at the base of his neck. He knew not what to do. “Well. You have it. This is my home. Besides Fantine, Cosette and the good inspector, few frequent it.”

“You live well. Not expensively, but well. May I take a seat?”

“Certainly. I will make food. Do you drink tea?”

“I do.” As she settled herself into one of the wooden chairs, he hurried to the counters with his thoughts following in jumbled array. Damn. What misfortune that a woman so apparently simpering and vain should be so astute? All of that had been a ploy. At parties, she had never lacked for confidence, but still saw fit to latch onto any man’s arm and note at some length the great beauty of her attire. Much of that had gone. What remained was the confidence, the deep intelligence in her expression suddenly blinding, true self unveiled. A woman who wore masks. Well, masks were Madeleine’s speciality.

It did leave him in something of a bind.

“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me of Fantine.”

“What would you like to know?”

“I am merely… curious about her. I know the name, and I cannot remember what mindless gossip came with it. What is she like?”

Madeleine could not offer gossip. The rumours about Fantine were callous and untrue, tearing him to his core, making his hands shake in fury. “She is a sweet woman. Very pretty, although she suffered from tuberculosis and is still recovering. As of late she has been teaching herself how to better her reading and writing, and wants a job as a secretary when she is well enough. I consider her… a dear friend.”

He steadied himself on the countertop, realising he had yet to begin looking for food, caught in his mind. “And Cosette – Euphraisie – is a darling. You might have seen her at the winter ball.”

“I believe I did.” Madame Brackley sighed. “Well. Thank you. That has told me much.” Tenting her hands, she rested her arms with ease against the rough wood of the table. “So. Do you read much, my good sir?“

“At times.“ Searching for a good cup, he frowned, thinking on the library of books he still had yet to get through. “Business takes up much of my time. Most of my work in the factory is done without a great deal of assistance, although Fantine is always forthcoming with ideas.“

“So have you a preference between Rousseau and Hobbes? I confess to enjoying Rousseau more. It is likely because he is from Geneva. English philosophers are always painfully _dry_ and serious, terribly obsessed with the monarchy.” Tilting her head, she seemed to disappear into her own mind. “Yes, I hope you are not a monarchist, Monsieur. I have much greater faith in the idea of the smaller societies that Rousseau espouses – the constitutions would work far better. There would be no need to kneel to a King purely because he is divinely chosen or because we have no option otherwise. How easy it is for a man of power to enforce servitude! And Hobbes would have us believe that it is preferable, all to escape the war of all.”

She sighed. “It is truly a web.”

Madeleine held the mug in something approaching terror.

Madame Brackley looked at him quizzically. “I suppose you have not read them. No matter. You should, at some time. And _Candide_ , that is funny, but, ah, no, you would not like it.”

“I would not?”

Something was amusing and Madeleine did not get the joke, listening helplessly as she chuckled to herself. “No, I daresay you would find it awful. Do not read that. But the others.”

Resting the cup at her elbow, he blinked. “You are rather clever, Madame. I would venture to say I have never met a woman quite like yourself.”

“It seems that Fantine has a smart head,” she muttered into her cup.

“She does. And even so.”

“I choose to be learned,” she said, close to biting the words. “I cannot abide by – wilful ignorance.”

It reminded Madeleine of the early Valjean. He had hungered so, hungered to become a man of knowledge and refined taste, struggling through tomes of old and new. Classics had formed the figure of Madeleine from their clay, dancing up through the umber to shape an Odysseus, journeying desperately in search of his homeland. For a while he had been taken by flights of fancy such as that, placing himself in the roles of the many men who crossed the pages. Why be ignorant when one could afford the books? Why not indulge in the million lifetimes one could live in that subtle print?

In that moment, he remembered what it was to enjoy a fine novel, and planned to read Rousseau as soon as he could.

“You are right to think thusly,” he replied.

The smile that graced her features betrayed the fact that she already knew this.

*

A week later, he found himself once more on Madame Brackley’s arm, rather surprised to be there. Most women had given up by now. In no sense did he betray any romantic interest. He indulged her sense of culture, talked on politics and philosophy where his knowledge was sufficient, and allowed her to impinge upon his time. Never did he kiss her hand. When he spoke, it was with a careful distance.

Mme. Brackley cared nothing for distance, nor for the apparent slowness of their courtship.

 _Surely both persons must be interested in order for it to be courting,_ he thought listlessly as she walked with him through the streets. Jealous glares followed their even step. _Although one can hardly tell from the outside what my heart declares. Or, fails to declare._

She was by all accounts a most worthy woman. He remained the forlorn, loveless mayor, and would continue to be so given the choice.

As they walked, she postulated on some aspect of Wollstonecraft, whom she revered. Madeleine had long since given up following the words. Instead he nodded politely and allowed his gaze to wander along the lines of the brick houses, pondering things as was his wont, considering structural changes when he saw a fault. They frequently passed dark alleyways, the lawless refuges of Montreuil, and he grew uncertain as they drew close to a particularly notorious corner.

Emerging from the darkness was a figure.

For a second, Madeleine was prepared to shield Madame, only to laugh internally when he realised that it was Javert. Javert, who was looking at the picture of Madeleine with a bourgeois woman as though he were beholding the dead prey of an efficient cat. Curiosity and distaste warred with surprising clarity on his features.

“Is everything quite alright?”

Turning to see Madame Brackley watching him, Madeleine chuckled wryly. “Yes, yes, sorry. Please do continue.”

Peering around to see whatever had caught his eye, she also noted the Inspector looming in the shadow. Madeleine felt her shiver; he could understand that response. Suddenly catching sight of the policeman when it was unexpected often gave Madeleine a turn, even though he had no need of it, even though he regarded Javert as a tentative friend.

“I see,” she said, pushing her gaze straight ahead. “I do wish he wouldn’t lurk so.”

“I cannot imagine you see the Monsieur l’inspecteur very often.”

“I do not. When I do it is always in circumstances such as this. I cannot imagine why anyone would choose such a thankless profession.”

Increasingly embarrassed at his talking of Javert without the man being directly present, Madeleine laughed awkwardly. “I’m sure there is satisfaction in it.”

He almost failed to catch the murmured reply. “For him, I’m sure.” Then she smiled disarmingly. “Anyway, Wollstonecraft…”

Was it just habit for people to loathe Javert? It certainly seemed so. Madeleine could not rightly fault it when it was the poor who cursed his name – he had been those men and women once, and memory of the cold bitterness of the law left the role of policeman still open to some insult in his mind. Why the bourgeois would take offence, he could not fathom. Maybe it was the same poverty that afflicted the police that drew distaste from wealthy lips. Or the lack of honour to the job – spying, scrutinising, friend and foe to society both.

It made for a lonely life.

*

While Madeleine languished in his inability to fend away interest or say no, he found himself entertaining Madame Brackley throughout June and into July. Gossip and scrutiny followed them. Horrific jealousy, also, and it was not long before he found himself noticing the way in which gamins would run out of sight as they approached, no doubt to pass on some tidbit of information to an unusually wealthy employer. Javert scowled at them pair from the darkness, avoiding the subject during weekly meals, listing his report and making excuses to leave early.

When Madeleine went hunting (usually his form of solitary relaxation), he found himself teaching the woman to shoot. She was a decent shot. Her slender hands did not quite fit the gun – in appearance and in physical proportion – and she laughed when the quarry got away. “No matter, no matter,” she would say, and hand the weapon back. Madeleine wondered if she was thinking of her other ‘catch’ in those moments.

The factory needed more attention than he could afford. Heat suffused the building and cooked his workers. Balancing his duties became intolerable. He had to fix the system by which they cooled the buildings, entertain his – entertain Madame Brackley, continue his mayoral duties, look after Cosette, help Fantine, deal with Javert’s black mood, go out and give alms, attend mass, do all of this and somehow sleep at night when his dreams contained the lash and guardsman Javert’s blue, blue eyes.

Worst of all, he suspected that a proposal for marriage was increasingly expected, and he despaired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did not intend for madame b to be so cool but here we are. i lov her  
> oh and a very quick madeleine sketch:  
> https://adventureswiththebrick.tumblr.com/post/166645526171/monsieur-madeleine


	6. Ensnared

“Oh, I am sorry. I didn’t realise you were entertaining guests.”

Fantine stood by the door, clutching Cosette’s hand. Cosette was stickily devouring a pastry, flakes of bun clutching at her cheeks and fingers. “Should I leave you –“

“Who is this?”

Madame Brackley had approached without Madeleine’s noticing, and was taking in the sight of the mother and child with open curiosity. “You must be Fantine,” she said.

“Indeed, Madame. And this is my child, Euphrasie.” Bobbing her head politely, Fantine searched the other woman with equal intensity. Madeleine felt suddenly out of place. “If I may ask, what business have you with our dear Madeleine?”

“I am here as his guest, fear not.” What Fantine was supposedly fearing, Madeleine did not know. “Ah, we should let the woman in. It is frightfully warm out there.”

Mid-July sun was cruel in Montreuil, and Madeleine was more than happy to allow his friends into the house. What he could not quite fathom was the eagerness with which Madame Brackley took Fantine’s hand and shook it, patting Cosette gently atop her crackling cloud of fair hair. Humidity and eager brushing made it stand about her face in a youthful cloud, only just avoiding the bun. Rather suddenly there were two chattering ladies and one chattering child taking up the lower floor of Madeleine’s house.

He breathed. This was fine.

Truly, it was fine. After more than a month of nigh constant stress, he was wholly glad to have this distraction, listening only vaguely to the intensely pointed questions of Madame Brackley and Fantine’s pointed replies.

“You do letter writing –“

“I do. It is perhaps not my original calling but I am rather good at it. Perseverance and reading have pushed me to’t.”

“Reading? Pray tell, what do you enjoy?”

“Many things. I attempted some of Monsieur’s works on theology and found them not quite to my tastes, but there are some fabulous novels –“

 _I am surrounded_ , Madeleine thought bitterly, _by veritable academics._

Not for the first time, he found himself missing the simplicities of business. He made drinks. It was what he was best at. Even after spending increasing time at Madame Brackley’s estate, he was near illiterate in the ways of entertaining, offering the only thing he could think of. Coffee. Not tea. He was growing embarrassed at the speed with which his tea supplies depleted.

“Why thank you,” Madame Brackley said upon receiving her cup, offering a brief glimpse of smile before turning back to Fantine. “Do continue.”

Fantine offered thanks in kind and lingered a little longer in her inquisitive look. Then they sparked up the conversation once more, immediately diving into an animated discourse on something called _Orgueil et Préjugés_ , a novel with far too many characters for Madeleine to penetrate its plot. Glancing helplessly at Cosette, he chuckled at her similarly lost expression.

“Do you want to play a game, my child? It seems we are both rather unsuited for this discussion.”

“Of course, papa.”

‘A game’ always translated into chess with intensely unorthodox rules. His set was aging, cracks already sullying smooth ceramic surfaces, bought secondhand before he had set up the factory. White and black pieces were muddled together as Cosette so chose, each piece gaining a name and a title, talking and interacting together on the board. The black king was ‘Monsieur le maire’, or Jehan, a choice which had made Madeleine laugh quietly for a fair few minutes. One of the black horses was Gymont, working both as inspector and as a horse.

“He’s one of those horsey men,” Cosette had announced when she first named it.

“A centaur,” Madeleine supplied, then struggled to keep from collapsing in a fit of laughter at the image of Javert with a horse body.

The other pieces were similarly based upon people Cosette knew. She was a castle, Fantine the white queen, all of the pawns named for her various school friends. Making ‘Monsieur le maire’ move about and talk in gruff tones, Madeleine found himself enjoying their game. Jehan and Gymont worked with Fantine to overpower a gang of terrible villains.

“What did they do?” Madeleine asked.

“Naughty things,” Cosette answered, almost mockingly. “Of course.”

“Right.” Gymont clattered over and knocked the ‘villains’ (all the bishops, probably due to their towering height) down, whinnying in triumph before Madeleine remembered that Gymont didn’t have a horse head. This conjured yet more imagined images.

He shoved down another bout of laughter.

Cosette also giggled. She wasn’t watching the board. “Look!” she hissed conspiratorially. “Mummy and Madame are friends!”

Looking over, it appeared that Cosette had spoken true. The pair were talking together, Fantine smiling around her cup and Madame Brackley whispering emphatically, eyes alive in a way that he had not yet seen.

Madeleine looked down. A twinge of regret settled in his gut.

*

Madeleine looked up, opened his mouth to speak, and then frowned.

The buckle of Javert’s collar was sitting underneath his left ear.

Rare enough that Javert should come to visit him in his office, given how often they saw each other privately, this detail was enough to notch ‘confusion’ up to ‘alarm’. Shuffling his letters away, Madeleine rested his head against his hands, clicking his tongue.

“Is everything alright, Javert?”

The inspector stared, gritting his jaw wryly. “Monsieur le maire,” he said slowly. “Do you intend upon marrying Madame Brackley?”

Immediately Madeleine coloured. “Well! That was rather forward of you, Javert. But – ah – I confess, I do not.”

“And yet you continue to allow her attempts at wooing?”

Shifting uncomfortably in his chair, Valjean noticed rather suddenly just how intense Javert’s stare was, and the angry colouring that had invaded the inspector’s cheeks. “I do not… if you will keep this a secret… I do not know how to turn her away. She is remarkably clever and so very persistent, and she seems so set upon _me_ , for some reason – “

“You are wealthy, and you are kind, and you are handsome,” Javert replied shortly, blinking at the final word in some confusion. “I am under your command. If you wish for me to step in, as it were, I would do so. Gladly.”

“Indeed?” Madeleine asked faintly.

“It is aggravating to watch. It is…” Whatever it was, Javert had not the words, shaking his head. “If you have any ideas, Monsieur, come to me and I will see that you are bothered no longer. Ah, and I was thinking of bringing salted fish for Friday. Do you have any fondness for that?”

*

Having no great knowledge of music, Madeleine had gratefully allowed Madame Brackley to pick their latest destination, finding himself seated in the town’s music hall.

It was a fine establishment. Madeleine knew this – he had funded its improvement and renovation himself, sometime in 1823 when Fantine had been heavily unwell and the presence of a lighter duty was a welcome distraction. Perhaps it was not of the same impact as another school, but it provided another vital element to the town: culture. Yes, Madeleine was no scholar nor an artisan, yet he could still recognise the value of art to a place once so deprived of anything but desperation.

Gilt seats lined the upper circle, where he sat. Madame Brackley rested a glittering arm on his own. A fine chandelier hung from the centre of the domed ceiling, making the painted cherubim above it move and conspire together. Below were the cheaper seats (specifically made cheap enough that the poor could afford to watch, or listen, depending) all red and pleasantly new. Fanciful candle holders lined cream walls.

“It is a marvellous place,” Madame Brackley opined, dimpling slightly. Being in a public setting, some of her old behaviours were slipping into place, wry intelligence hiding behind a protective screen of femininity. “I remember when it was quite awful in here. Hardly fit for a performance of any kind, never mind an orchestra.”

“Montreuil deserved it.” Tapping his fingers with some impatience, Madeleine watched the stage. Half of the musicians had taken up their positions, their shoes clacking smartly on the wooden panels; violins tested their strings in mournful wails

“It is telling.” Feeling a weight upon his hand, Madeleine turned, finding that Madame Brackley had moved her palm over his. She was looking at him with frightening earnestness. “It speaks well of you, Monsieur, that you appreciate such things. Many would scorn the arts because they are not so lucrative, and it is –“ She paused, looking past his shoulder, and frowned. “Oh.”

Madeleine looked to his opposite side.

Javert was standing with his hat held tightly at his front, as though about to offer it. Taut stiffness held in his spine; he was held perfectly on the knife edge between awkwardness and respect. “Good evening, Monsieur, Madame. I believe this is my seat.”

Right next to Madeleine.

If this change in situation frustrated Mme. Brackley in any way, she allowed none of it to show in her face. “Good evening, Inspector,” she said. “What fair chance that you should be so near to us.”

“Indeed,” he replied, and bowed before seating himself with almost comical neatness. He shared a private glance with Madeleine, who had shifted to face the orchestra once more, and they both smiled.

Chance, or, as it were, not chance at all. Given that Madeleine had reserved the tickets for himself and Madame, there had been no trouble in discreetly reserving the seat to the left of him for the town Inspector.

Tucking her hands on her lap, Madame Brackley pursed her lips.

“So.”

Damned awkward, this. Exhaling slowly, Madeleine leant left, odd sensation pricking at his stomach. “I did not take you for a lover of music, Javert.”

“I am not, usually, but I wished to improve myself.” True, true enough, Javert never lied outright and it showed in the workings of his expression. “This orchestra is supposed to be of quality.”

A cry arose from the stage as three violins tested their highest string simultaneously.

“I pray I shall not be proven wrong,” Javert added, dryly.

As soon as the last word was out of Javert’s mouth, a conductor wafted across the stage and bowed theatrically, planting his obscenely shined shoes into the wood. In rich tones he began what was, he promised, a very brief address _indeed_ , which naturally was long to the point of rudeness. Gesturing with artistic flourishes, he offered a detailed history of the orchestra. He seemed particularly proud of some minute connection with Bonaparte.

“Well, at least that is over,” Javert whispered loudly. “One would _hate_ for the man to talk overmuch.”

The conductor could not possibly have overheard the comment, yet Javert’s quiet snark preceded a far _longer_ tale of several of the musicians lives, biographies of the composers they were playing, as well as other apparently unrelated incidents that the speaker happened to find interesting. Madeleine was both amused and faintly bored, paying more attention to the two people sat on either side of him than the actual words. Javert’s eyes had glazed over, sitting entirely properly, fingers tapping on the side of his hat. Madame Brackley had leaned in and was listening with rapt attention, laughing in the right places, nodding in agreement once or twice.

Finally, _finally,_ the man ceased talking. Flicking his wrist with practiced art, he turned to face the musicians, all of whom straightened up in their seats and picked up their instruments from where they had inevitably been set down. One flutist had a terrible and poorly masked panic for a second before realising that he was holding his flute in his left hand.

Madeleine chuckled good naturedly at that.

Journeying up into the air, the conductor’s baton held the room on one tense thread. Then – down it flew, dragging every instrument with it into a bright song. Being most uneducated in music, Madeleine did not recognise it, noting only the way that Madame Brackley’s mouth curled around an unheard name. She was smiling. Javert was almost sneering.

The fast song ended as quickly as it began. “They play well,” Mme. Brackley said, applauding.

“They play tripe,” Javert muttered, apparently unaware of the displeased glance it earned him. “Why, the children in the square sing like this.”

“You do not like cheerful tunes?” Already, she was beginning to sound defensive.

“If one has some great instrument like a cello, one may as well play something masterful. And violins make such a dour sound. Surely they are better suited to equally dour music?”

Another tune began, just as fast, pompous. Javert scoffed. He derided the taste and one particular trumpet player who annoyed him. And so it continued. With every piece he would pick at it and complain, grumbling audibly about minor faults, insulting the conductor wherever possible, offering sarcastic remarks that made Madeleine chuckle behind his hand. With every word, Madame Brackley’s stare intensified, until she was glaring at the orchestra far more vehemently than Javert could have hoped to. Occasionally they would begin to argue, only for a new tune to begin and cut it short.

While it was interminable, Madeleine soothed himself by laughing at Javert’s black humour.  

Finally they reached the last piece. It was promised to be ‘unorthodox’, which worried and excited Madeleine in equal measure. The trumpets began to blare, as cymbals crashed together.

Both Madame Brackley and Javert froze in their seats. Madeleine blinked in confusion.

“Oh dear,” was all she said, covering her mouth.

“ _Pardieu,_ ” Javert swore, fire alighting in his eyes.

“What is it?” Madeleine whispered.

“The old ‘anthem’,” Javert hissed through his teeth. “It is banned. By order of the King.” For a moment he screwed his nose up in thought, and looked queerly at Madeleine. “Monsieur, you do not recognise it?”

“Peasant.” Madeleine’s hasty justification appeased the inspector, who was now peering about, seeking some unknown thing amongst the crowds. No, they had no means of playing music in Faverolles, and _certainly_ not in Toulon, where the most one could enjoy was the mournful songs that creative bagnards dreamed up. A few errant voices were singing along with the music. One displeased sigh arose from Madame Brackley as Javert vacated his seat and disappeared, followed by an off-duty gendarme.

What followed was thankfully brief. Discomfort had been stirred in the audience by the sound of prohibited music anyway, so Javert’s leaping onto the stage with his cudgel was a welcome relief. Cheers rose as he threatened the conductor; they rose to delighted shouts as the man was rapped smartly atop the head.

“For heaven’s sake,” Madame Brackley grumbled. “Is he capable of normal behaviour?”

But Madeleine was not listening. Several more policemen in the audience had unveiled themselves and were also on the stage, handcuffing the ones who fought. “I will have to make a statement on this,” Madeleine said, mostly to himself. “Dear me.”

The crowd began to disperse.

Several overexcited men and women stood chattering in the stalls, and Madeleine led Madame Brackley down the stairs towards the exit, finding a zealous Javert barking sharp orders and grinning. While not all of the company had been arrested – the cell space in Montreuil was meagre – a long list of names had accumulated in Javert’s notebook.

“And what, exactly, were you hoping to achieve?” he was asking, as a particularly argumentative percussionist was led to the door.

“A voice for France! You know, we’ve been playing it all over the country, and everywhere else they understood! Look,” he said, shuffling his handcuffs. “They didn’t all know. There’s a lot of young men who have no idea what the song is so – don’t jail them. I can tell you who.”

“If what you say is true, then they will be fine.” Javert glanced at the pair watching him, and shut his notebook. “Alright. Take him to the cells. Tomorrow we can gather details.”

Chatter was dying down outside, and Javert stretched lazily before motioning towards the exit. “I needed that,” he said, returning his cudgel to a hidden pocket within his coat.

“Was it really so necessary?” Mme. Brackley had taken Madeleine’s offer of an arm, but her usual confidence was lacking. “To go through all that over _La Marseillaise?_ ”

“It is against the law. And besides, Madame, after two hours of abuse, my head was not quite right. I am sorry,” Javert said, in a tone betraying no apology whatsoever, “for the dramatics, if it truly offends.”

“And you’ve been terribly quiet,” she said to Madeleine, accusatory.

He shrugged. “I knew not the music.”

Words seemed to rise to her tongue, then, but she bit them down. _An insult_ , Madeleine thought. _Praise God._ “We should depart,” he suggested, keeping relief from his voice. “Would not do to loiter after the events of the night.”

A pause. Summer heat rested uneasily over them, and Javert tipped his hat onto his head. He rested his hand on Madeleine’s sleeve, face a mask of concern, but Madeleine could feel his suppressed amusement in the shake of his palm. "Well, goodnight then. Only, pray be careful on these streets at night, Monsieur. You often find yourself in _unwanted_ company -"

At that, Madame Brackley dropped Madeleine’s opposing arm as though it were a brand, face awash with fury. “Right!” she declared. “Right! I can see when I am not wanted. You two are perfect for one another – regular schoolboys, for all you’re so respectable. Madeleine, I thought you kinder than this. I was wrong, if you’d rather entertain such - ridiculous mockery. And as for you, _Monsieur l’inspecteur,_ you are a _pig._ How the hell you got out of Toulon, I’ll never know.”

Satisfied, she turned to one of the young men exiting the building, and gazed at him so fiercely that he stepped back. “You. You’ve tried to court me before, haven’t you? Georges, or something?”

Georges nodded.

“Give me your arm,” she growled, and they disappeared down a side alley leading to the town centre.

There was a moment of shocked silence.

“ _Mon dieu,_ ” Madeleine said. Then, without a second’s pause, he curled over laughing, one hand resting on Javert’s shoulder. He clutched at his chest and wheezed. The inspector merely cracked a wry smirk with no teeth, amusement telling in his eyes, watching Madeleine as he clawed at his greatcoat.

“Will that suffice?” Javert asked once Madeleine had righted himself.

Madeleine wiped tears of mirth away from his eyes. “Oh, but I am awful – the poor woman – but thank you, Javert, I daresay I would never have succeeded in this.”

Bowing, Javert appeared pleased with his work. “Ever in your service, Monsieur.”

“Would you like to go for a walk? In another direction to the one they just took, of course. Only the night is young enough, and it would be pleasant to talk frankly with one another, instead of in veils.”

To Madeleine’s delight, Javert crooked his arm out by way of invitation, and he took it. “I have sent enough men to the station for one night. Hm. It would seem you are the ‘woman’ in this,” Javert muttered drolly.

“You are taller than I.” Steering them towards the docks, Madeleine noted how familiar the black coat had become, how easy on his eyes. “Besides which, I am rather tired of being bachelor at present.”

Javert smiled. It was his usual smile, terrifying teeth and all, but it was not awful to behold. Rather, its honesty was endearing. It faltered slightly when Madeleine remained silent, staring. “Ah. Apologies. I hear my smile is quite –“

“No. No, my good man. I was admiring it.”

At this, the inspector spluttered, and said nothing for quite some time, glaring into the shadows of the dock. For such a cold figure, he was terribly easy to fluster. Madeleine laughed quietly to himself. “Was that the wrong thing to say?”

“You are a fool,” Javert grumbled. “Monsieur le maire,” he added, begrudgingly.

“I have melted you! See, you insult me, and I could not be happier for it.”

“You –“ Carrying them through the alley and out onto the open cobbles, Javert sucked on his teeth. “I know no man quite like yourself.”

“Please, elaborate.” It was a terrible thing to enjoy this so.

“Fine, fine, you ask it. You have no regard for status, Monsieur, though you have fair reason considering that you have risen to the position of mayor from peasantry. You are damnably kind and – why, you seem to like me.” Huddling himself into his collar, Javert blinked in the darkness. “Surely I am not such fine company as all that.”

“Have some faith in yourself, man. Would I spend time with you if I did not wish for it?”

“You are obviously aiming for sainthood, so, perhaps.” Stars winked up overhead and Javert craned his neck back to catch their brief greetings, arm tightening upon Madeleine’s as he relied upon the other man to keep from tripping. “Yet it is hardly difficult to avoid a police inspector. And it was your idea that I should visit your home. So I believe in the honesty of your motivations, although I am… unaccustomed to it.”

A swell of affection rose in Madeleine, realising belatedly that he was already quite forgetting Madame Brackley in his preoccupation with Javert. And – and it was so easy to do, with the man on his arm, staring into the sky as though it held the answer to every question, cheeks lined with need.

“I would have us know one another as friends,” Madeleine muttered.

“Good.”

Javert kept his gaze fixed, but he was scarcely concealing a grin. Madeleine also struggled to maintain a suitable expression, laughing one breathless laugh.

“Well. In that case, _mon ami_ , we should be getting home. It is not the hour for respectable men to be about.”   

*

The servant’s left eyebrow disappeared beneath his hairline, but he allowed Madeleine entry to the house.

After a week of waiting, Madeleine had finally caved. After the fact of that night, he found himself increasingly troubled by his own behaviour, and even more troubled by allowing Javert to be so similarly beastly. Sin was one’s own; yet he had wilfully drawn another man with him, even if that man had allowed himself to be so drawn…

He paused outside of her study, hand raised to knock, exhaling slowly.

What words had he prepared? In truth, none. She would know if he had chosen them beforehand, as she seemed to know everything. Yes, he felt guilt. There would have been no fault in requesting that he be left to his solitude, none at all, only his damned kindness refused to allow it. As a result his answer to the issue had been so drastic –

_“Good morning, Monsieur le maire” Javert had said the next morning, still distinctly pleased with himself. “I wished to report upon our arrests. We have detained the 5 leading figures of the orchestra. I would have it be more, but there is insufficient evidence to arrest the lot.”_

_“Playing along is not evidence?”_

_“As you heard, it was suggested that some were acting in ignorance. It is well. There is scarcely enough room for the five of them amidst our other charges, but I am looking into farther reaching punishments for the rest.” Gloved hands squeezed together with a satisfied creak. “And about our other plan –“_

_“Wholly successful. Although in the light of day, I find I regret it.”_

_“Surely you do not suddenly find yourself… mistaken –“_

_Perplexed by the sharpness of Javert’s reply, Madeleine shook his head placatingly. “No. I know I did not wish to court her. Yet what we did was cruel.”_

_“What you call cruelty, it is often a kindness, Monsieur.”_

_A flyer for the night’s performance lay face up on the desk, and Madeleine was compelled to cover it with his hand, as though the denial of the events could mask his wrongdoing. “Not this time,” he said._

Enough. Madeleine knocked on the door.

“Come in,” came the harried reply.

Madame Brackley was in the middle of writing a letter, hand curving expert penmanship onto fine paper. At the sound of the door opening, she looked up.

“Oh.” She did not stand in greeting. One furious eyebrow rose to meet her hairline. “I did not think you would dare show your face.”

“I wished to apologise,” Madeleine said in earnest. “Myself and the Inspector were abominably rude. I think he does not know quite when to stop, sometimes, and I did not venture to impede him. I can only offer my sincerest apologies to you, Madame. You are a fine woman. You have not deserved this.”

“Oh, I know.”

She started writing again.

Madeleine sighed, and bowed his head. “That was not enough. Indeed, you need not forgive me.” He removed his hat and sensed eyes burning into his scalp. “I should have been polite and spoken plainly. My own inability to do so caused you grief, and for that I am most certainly in the wrong. If you have insult for me, I beg you – say it clear.”

There was no response, yet also no scratch of ink. Only a sigh. “I did not think you capable of such behaviours,” she said eventually. “I do… apologise for the excess of wooing when I did suspect you reticent. And yet you had only to speak to me and I would have let be. I am not some beast.”

Madeleine did not know how to reply.

“Oh, do lift your head,” she said crossly.

“Sorry.” He looked up. Madame Brackley was sitting with her head in her hands, visibly agitated. “If there is anything at all that I can do to mend this wound…”

“We may be able to attempt a friendship. And I would not mind access to the town’s library. Rumour is that you have a private section of some fabulous classics.”

“It is yours,” he replied simply. “I will find you the key. But that cannot be all you want.”

“I want a great many things I cannot have. Worry yourself not with it, Monsieur. I appreciate your apology, although the sting smarts, and I suppose that I shall have to cease in sending dinner invitations.” Of course she knew of his previous excuses.

“You are too kind.”

“Perhaps.” She tapped her fingers on the wood of the desk. “I suppose. Well. When you see the inspector next, tell him that I apologise for the comment about Toulon. It was in poor taste.”

“Oh. Certainly.”

Tilting her head to one side, Madame Brackley laughed. “Look at you. You seem so lost. Forgive me for saying so, but you are astonishingly naïve. Toulon is a prison – you must know _that_ – and it is rumoured that Javert worked as a guard there.”

“I was aware, yes.” _And far more besides._

“A terrible place,” she muttered, then smiled. “Anyway. I was quite busy.”

“Of course. I shall leave you to your writing. I wish you well.” Gratefully placing his hat back on his head, he paused before leaving. “Why do you search so for a husband, Madame?”

She lifted her head, expression all surprise. “Surely the reason is obvious.”

“Not to me.” He turned around proper. “You are a capable woman. You are well read; you run your house with ease; you seem not interested in the frippery of the rich, not truly. It seems that you would merely pull along any man you chose to wed. Monsieur Brackley certainly lacked the character.”

Folding a piece of card neatly, she mused for a long time. “I left England because I wanted a change. People accuse me of marrying the late Monsieur for the sake of his money – this is not quite true. I was wealthy enough already. But I liked this house and I liked his taste in literature and we would talk sometimes of it. Did I love him? Most certainly not. Yet he was company. Inadequate, colourless, and company all the same.”

“You are lonely,” he murmured. _Like myself._

“Very.” A new light came over the woman, and all her miseries were laid bare in the terrible smile upon her face. “I liked you because you were not some damned fool, obsessed with his money and the quality of his business. Whether you think so or not, you are a fascinating man, Monsieur le maire. I have never had the joy of meeting someone so charitable, or so strange. Giving alms as freely as one gives breath, living in that tiny home with the child you have taken in purely out of kindness and love – which other man in this town, or all of France, behaves such as you do? The fact that you are easy on the eyes, well, that is irrelevant. The ladies of my class may desire you for your status and your appearance. I desired only your company.”

Suddenly humbled, he walked back to her desk and covered her small hands with his rough palm. “A peasant’s hand,” he said. “I feel quite awful now. I am so sorry.”

“It is nothing. I only grew so angry because your friend was insulting the music, which I deemed quite fine. Although the insult to my person perhaps went too far.”

“I was much in the wrong,” Madeleine insisted. “Your company is not unwanted. Most happily I would consider you a friend, even if I am not so well versed in your philosophies.”

“You are welcome any time you wish to visit. Indeed, as is Fantine. I esteem her highly. I have heard she is a fallen woman – excellent, I would have her talk with me about the foolishness of such a notion, and see what fine ideas come from her pretty head.” Madame Brackley looked curiously distracted for a moment, faint flush rising to her cheeks. “Ah, and she will like my library. Yes, she is very welcome to visit, and to bring dear Euphrasie with her.”

“I shall inform them posthaste.” At that, he made to leave. “Thank you kindly, Madame, I shall be sure to see you soon. May you have a pleasant evening.”

“Excellent. A good evening to you, Monsieur.” She did not stand, watching until he reached the door, then suddenly called out. “And your terrible secrets, whatever they are – should you tell me, know that I would keep them!”

He did not try to correct her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bad mental health is hardcore kicking my ass atm but thank u for reading  
> also should i write some fantine x mme.brackley y/n?


	7. What Is Due

Holding his book with precarious honesty, Madeleine watched Javert read.

It was endlessly amusing. Somehow the man looked angrier with a tome in his hands, fire lights flickering frustrated shadows across his face, furrowed brows deepening as his gaze fixated upon one word or another. For once, he had not chosen a book on law but had selected one of Madeleine’s many theological treatises. He tutted frequently.

“Your realise that reading is supposed to be for pleasure,” Madeleine teased.

“I read to improve myself,” Javert snapped, drawing closer to the fine print. “There is nothing pleasurable about it.”

“Perhaps if you loosened that lofty goal, you would find it more enjoyable.” Madeleine chuckled at the bitter glare he received. “It was only a suggestion.”

“Pah.”

Shutting his slender volume on Aquinas, Madeleine stretched out, enjoying the licks of warmth curling from the fireplace. Autumn was hurrying in fast, and with it came a chill that never quite abandoned his fingers and toes. Memories of the cold, of hauling in ships in the bitter winter, of sleeping on the plank with no protection at one's feet – it had left his body with an arctic disposition.

“A bite to eat, Javert?”

“If you are offering, Monsieur le maire.”

A few minutes later, Javert blinked at the plate of madeleines and macarons that was thrust under his nose, and scoffed. “Is this a joke?”

“Perhaps.” Madeleine couldn’t resist his grin. “And if it is?”

“A poor one.” Lowering his book, Javert picked out a well-browned madeleine and chewed on it thoughtfully. “Apt, however.”

“Apt, Javert?”

“You are too sweet, and I am surprised that the political system hasn’t eaten you alive.” It was Javert’s turn to smile. “Your name.”

“I am tougher than you give me credit for. I have heard it said that I am a ruthless and capable businessman.” Whether Madeleine believed that himself was yet to be seen. He merely did what was best for his company and for his workers, and stood his ground whenever it was needed. The broadness of his shoulders were a fine assistance in that.

“Capable, I have seen, but I would not believe ruthlessness of you, Monsieur. I have seen ruthless men. They are either politicians, or criminals, more often both.”

Well, then, Madeleine satisfied Javert’s conditions most adequately. He coughed in dismay. “Politics is not so difficult,” he supplied, curbing the discussion with pained nonchalance. “I did not want my position, but it was thrust upon me, so I do the work that they ask of me and care for my people. So far I have had no issues. No scandals to speak of, nor any usurper.”

“I should think not,” Javert scoffed. “And if ever you did, you would not have them long.”

It was a strangely violent comment. Perhaps Javert realised this, for he shuffled in his seat and tutted. “It would be unlawful,” he continued, although his justification was weak against the crackling of the fire.

*

It was bitterly cold for October.

The number of deaths in the town sharply rose as the poor struggled against the weather and inevitably failed, blankets insufficient to fill their hungering mouths, fingers freezing stiff and stifling any attempt at work.  So, the death toll rose, but it was not as severe as in nearby towns, where deep graves were being dug to make room for the penniless. Madeleine sat at his desk in the Mairie and tried not to weep over every life lost. He missed the summer, when the heat was stifling but rarely deadly.

“I have been to Arras, and it is like hell,” one delegate informed him. “Believe me when I say that you are bearing this well, Monsieur le maire.”

Staring at a selection of reports, Madeleine recalled that man’s face. Redness had been permanently worn onto his cheeks, hair mussed from days of travel, a representative of the king. For a brief hour he had filled the office with a certain portly air, then disappeared to enjoy the delights of the local tavern.

A well deserved carousing. Sipping at his own drink, Madeleine thought he could almost understand that. When alcohol warmed the body, licked a little fire up the arms, muddled the brain just enough that one could numb some of the pain – that, he understood.

He shuffled through reports to those from the hospital.

Two young girls had died of chill, three night before. The clinical descriptions of their long, matted hair reminded him of Cosette, standing alone in that inn. She had been at least as malnourished and unloved as they, yet they had died, and she still lived. Javert’s addendum noted the lack of any guardian, despite having searched for some time, and Madeleine did not doubt this. If he had only  _ known – _

Fantine often reminded him that they could not take in every child that Madeleine came across. There were fine orphanages in town, she insisted, and the children liked being together. Between his many duties and Fantine’s work, they had only time to dote fairly upon one daughter.

There was the poor, and there was the factory, which continued to cause headaches. Workers were complaining that the fireplaces were not sufficient. Being a kindly employer, Madeleine had responded to this issue with increased wood to burn, and extra clothing if it was needed. For a time, this stymied the comments, until one morning when he had received the unpleasant shock of finding half the wood stolen.

Nobody would confess to the crime, yet he did not lack ears. He heard tell of women who stashed logs beneath their aprons, and men who secreted them into their bags when the foreman’s attention was elsewhere. Initially he had whipped into a minor fury at the insult, then drifted into a mournful sadness. He would gladly have given out all the firewood in the world if asked. Yet the natural pride of the people overrode their sense, and –

He remembered a young man named Jean Valjean who stole a loaf of bread when he needed only ask, and he could hardly have condemned them even if they had taken his prized candlesticks.

From then on he provided a wicker basket of logs for workers to take home.

It seemed that the unconventional temperature was inspiring a general criminality to the town, a fact that Javert was noting with increasing frequency. Montreuil jail was filling distressingly fast; while this seemed to please the policeman, it alarmed the Mayor.

Swirling his drink in his glass, Madeleine tipped back in his chair and sighed. He hummed a distant tune, realised it was  _ La Marseillaise, _ and abruptly ceased. Ever since that strange and somehow fateful evening it had been sitting in the back of his mind and cropping up at the worst possible moments. Having a terrible urge to hum the old national anthem in the presence of a royal delegate had been interesting, if faintly terrifying. It was worse when he almost did it around Javert, who would no doubt become extremely upset.

He stared at the inspector’s handwriting on the report.  _ Mother absent, father absent. _

The poor mites.

*

One frozen morning, Madeleine threw his thickest coat over his shoulders and left the house before it was light. For once, he found himself with a relatively reasonable schedule. The foreman had offered to deal with the morning work at the factory and his work at the Mairie was not urgent. Purpling clouds coated the sky above, thick with the promise of rain. He thought he caught a distant roll of thunder.

As he wandered the streets, offering coins to the huddled shadows in the doorways, his soul found momentary rest. Almsgiving was a form of meditation for the most pious mind. Joy and contentment swelled alongside his indignation that this remained necessary. One day, he would come up with a scheme to solve the problem of the town’s poverty once and for all, and he mused at length on this as he walked.

It was just growing light when he turned his gaze into a looming alleyway and found a strange scene.

Five men were clustered against the wall, one slammed up against the brick, one holding him in place, the other three circling eagerly about like a flock of crows. It did not take much imagination to realise what was occurring; Madeleine was already set upon intervening when he realised that the man being pinned to the wall was Javert. A pit of something nameless surged up in Madeleine’s gut.

The attacker had a knife to Javert’s throat, tip pointed into the skin at his neck, moments away from slashing it open. Javert’s face was a cold mask of detachment, but Madeleine fancied he saw a hint of fear in those powerful eyes.

“Enough of that,” Madeleine said, stepping into the shadows of the alley. He scarcely knew the voice as his own. “Don’t you think?”

Five pairs of eyes swivelled to meet his own, Javert’s expression incredulous and marginally delighted.

“It’s the  _ mayor –“ _ the smallest man hissed.

“I  _ know _ ,” came a sharp reply, and Javert was slowly hoisted further up against the brick. The leader of the pack – for he could only be the leader – was obviously immensely strong, wielding his knife with practiced ease. He had barely moved.

Madeleine took a slow step forward. “This is hardly a fair fight,” he said. “Come, if you must, try me instead of the inspector.”

“You’re a strange man, to offer the life of a magistrate for him,” the leader muttered, but grinned. He tensed; dropped his hold on Javert and lunged, Madeleine bounding forward to meet him mid-stride.

Elated satisfaction bubbled in Madeleine’s gut as he punched the man in the face, knife immediately dropping to the ground with a clatter, an ugly nose crunching beneath his fist. Then again – in the chest, and left the groaning body to fall to the ground as he was set upon by the other three thieves.

It was child’s play. Some element of Jean-le-cric was alive in Madeleine as he lifted the smallest bodily, feeling the warmth and weight of his back against the palms of his hands. With a heave, he threw the man against the opposite wall, satisfied when the body did not stir. Ducking blows and responding too quickly to miss, Madeleine quickly made it clear that he was not a man to be bested. One thief ran away. The other he held against the stone brick, hand wrapped around his throat.

“Are we done here?” Madeleine asked. His tone was thoroughly conversational.

The man nodded.

“Good.” He let go. Cursing, the final thief rubbed at his neck and stumbled away, glancing back in terror every few steps. It would have to be sufficient.

Remembering his inspector, Madeleine swivelled about to find Javert curled up against the wall, having slipped down from where the would-be-murderers had pinned him. He was staring at the body on the floor. Madeleine ducked down to his friend’s level, nervously probing Javert’s face for any injury. “Are you quite well? They haven’t hurt you?”

“No, not at all,” Javert replied distractedly. He sounded breathless.

“Are you certain?” True, there was no evidence of damage, not even a bruise. Yet the man beneath Madeleine’s touch was uncommonly pliant, his eyes suddenly snapping from the felled thief to Madeleine’s own gaze. Some element of immense scrutiny made Madeleine pause. He struggled against the convict’s instinct to flee as he was observed with brilliant, almost tender, closeness.

“You have saved my life,” Javert whispered.

Internally, Madeleine cursed, for he saw in the inspector’s eyes that one thing that he had not wanted – worship. Javert was looking at him in much the way that Madeleine looked at the holy crucifix. “You would do the same for me,” Madeleine said hurriedly, only for his hand to be taken up in Javert’s gloved grasp. Javert rested his head upon it in an unorthodox bow.

“This is a debt that cannot be repaid.” Apparently unaware of Madeleine’s deep discomfort, Javert held him closer. “Good, then, that I answer to you already. Monsieur le maire, if you  _ ever  _ are in need –“

“Please.” Madeleine silenced Javert with a word. He awkwardly led Javert back to a standing position, ignoring the confused blinking it elicited. “I have no need for debts. And – if we are to be so familiar, use  _ tu.  _ It seems wrong that you speak so properly when –“

“Surely it is the other way around, you deserve utmost respect.” Javert insisted. “I… Is that a true request? Not a mere kindness?”

“From the depth of my heart, I would have it be so.”

“Then you shall have it.” Usually, Javert would spit  _ tu _ like a curse, use it only for criminals and convicts. It was as though Madeleine were hearing it from the man’s lips for the first time. What once had been harsh became soft, wondering, sweet with admiration. Madeleine had made the right decision. “Although, Monsieur, I should arrest –“

“Ah, of course.”

Handcuffs promptly bound the two remaining criminals. The leader was still wheezing from his blow to the gut, pale and shaking, refusing to meet either man’s eye as Javert pulled him up from the floor and held him fast. The smallest had to be rearranged from his slumped position on the cobblestone, arms lifted into the air by Madeleine as Javert snapped the cuffs. He was out cold.

“I will carry this one,” Madeleine offered, and slung the body over his shoulder with careless ease.

“As you wish,” Javert replied reverently, then scowled at his own capture. “Move it.”

Four figures emerged from the alleyway and travelled towards the jail. In the light of the morning, Madeleine could now take in the features of the assailant. He was broad, not unlike Madeleine himself, but where the benefits of mayorship had given Madeleine excess strength there was far less muscle to the man’s bone. Bruised cheeks flanked his broken nose, which streamed a thin trail of red onto swollen lips. Dark eyes struggled to focus, dazed as he was, shielded by thick black hair.

His appearance was the prevailing one of Toulon, that of a potential man harvested in his prime. For brief seconds, Madeleine’s heart dared feel sympathy, until he remembered the glint of the knife and a fierce protectiveness of Javert overcame his gentle disposition.

“Has he woken at all?” Madeleine asked, tilting his head to the man over his shoulder.

“No,” Javert replied. “You threw him hard, Monsieur.”

“ _ Tu _ ,” Madeleine reminded, and chuckled at the mollified expression he received in return. “Well, I hope that he is well enough to wake soon. And I apologise for letting the other two escape, I merely –“

“No apologies from you, Monsieur le maire, although I would prefer to catch them. It is no concern. I am a fine policeman. I always get my man.” Grimacing, Javert shuffled the shackles of his prisoner. “Save for this morning, it seems.”

“We cannot all be in perfect form at all times. It would be exhausting.”

“Quite right. Only in my line of work, it can lead to one’s untimely demise.” The few townspeople that were milling about greeted the pair with varying levels of surprise, and Javert bowed shallowly to each as Madeleine smiled. “I am lucky for your strength,” Javert continued.

“One of the many gifts of labour.” Noticing that they neared the prison, Madeleine allowed the criminal to slip from his grip, cradling him in his arms. “I suppose I shall deposit him in the cell?”

“If you would be so kind.”

Ducking through the low doorway of the jail, Madeleine tutted. The cells were damnably full. “There’s one here,” Javert offered carelessly, leading the mayor to an empty cell at the back. In three swift movements he searched the leader for weapons, opened the door, and shoved the man inside. Following his path, Madeleine found a half-buried bedroll and laid his own capture upon it. Even in the low light it was obvious that his skin was waxy, sallow and lifeless.

“We might need a doctor,” Madeleine muttered, sitting on his haunches and checking the man’s scalp for obvious abrasions.

“I will see to that.” Javert fiddled with his keys. “Do not worry yourself.”

Madeleine turned to reply and the words died on his tongue. From his position, Javert dominated the light, slender bars separating them. For a moment Madeleine felt quite alone in the cell; the ghost of a shackle closed about his foot and he heaved a laboured breath. The inspector wore grey, not blue, he was peering curiously rather than with his famed sneer of disdain, yet Madeleine was tricked into seeing those things regardless. The familiarity of the bars terrified Valjean. Deep in his heart he craved them, because he knew them like old friends, and he swallowed his odd memories.

“Certainly,” he managed to say, and stumbled from the cell. Javert raised one eyebrow. He shut the door with a swift jingle.

“You look pale.” Tensing his gloved hands, Javert tried to place them at his front, then settled for resting them passively at his back.

Aware of the eyes of many men about him, Madeleine laughed and shook his head. “It gave me a turn, to see you in that position. I will be well.”

“Indeed. For you were there.” Again a curious transformation overtook Javert and he bowed his head in peculiar quandary. “It was fortunate.”

Then, more quietly: “I am fortunate.”

Sensing that there may be time and space needed, Madeleine touched Javert on the shoulder and kindly took his leave. “I will see you on Friday,” he said, and offered a smile, that which Madame Brackley had identified as his most winning.

“I look forward to it,” Javert replied, blinking.

Hastening from the building, Madeleine felt a confused eye follow him, and himself felt a faint confusion as he realised that he could not remember what he had planned for that day.

*

“We have heard of your tales of heroism,” Fantine effused. Madame Brackley nodded eagerly, hair awry, hands defrosting in mittens.

Frowning in apprehension at the gaggle of women in his decidedly messy factory office, Madeleine wondered why the foreman had allowed them up. Naturally, he would entertain guests at any time, were it not for the fact that he and Fantine lived side-by-side. “Could this not have waited at all?” He lacked even the basics of a drink to offer. “That is not to say that I am not pleased to see you, my good friends, but it is the middle of the day.”

“We were in town, looking for clothing for Cosette, and we couldn’t help but overhear what the shopkeep was saying. Is it true?” The quality of excitement to Madame Brackley’s face was such that Madeleine found himself incapable of refusing.

With a deep sigh, he leant upon his desk. “I suppose. It depends what you have heard, for stories are often terribly distorted by hearsay.”

Shifting Cosette’s hair distractedly, Fantine hummed. “It was scant on detail. Only that you came across Monsieur l’inspecteur in an alleyway being accosted by brigands, and bested all of them!”

“Then you have the long and short of it,” he replied. “That is the extent of the tale.”

Strange, however, that they should know of it. Mere hours had passed. Only he, Javert and the men themselves would know of the attack, and Madeleine severely doubted that any of the escaped thieves would have willingly told of their defeat, the other pair hidden from prying eyes in their cell. This left only Javert himself as the willing gossip. For different reasons, that was equally laughable. Javert was no tattle. Frequently, he would scorn the loose mouths of the town wives, although they assisted in cases more often than not, spying jealously upon all manner of crime and misdemeanour. Would Javert ever stoop to such a level as to spread rumour?

Or would Javert even see it as such? No doubt he regarded the act as one of justice, that the town should be aware of the acts of its leader.

“Papa is a hero!” Cosette piped, and skipped out of Fantine’s arms, dimpling proudly.

Helpless against her charms, Madeleine gestured for her to sit upon his lap. She did so with a youthful leap. “I am no such thing,” he tutted, and pinched her nose playfully. “I am just your papa.”

“You saved maman,” Cosette said wisely. “You saved me from those mean parents! So you are a hero, and you are papa!”

“She has you there,” Madame Brackley snickered.

“But he will never admit it,” Fantine chuckled. “Well, do you truly have nothing more to tell us?”

“I do not know what you would ask of me.” Bouncing Cosette upon his knee, Madeleine shrugged. “There were four of them. They were not terribly strong. I rid Javert of them, and we apprehended two. They are in the jail. That is all.”

Both ladies pouted.

When night had fallen, and they were long since gone from his office, he finally left the factory and still found eyes upon him. Whispers pricked at his ears before the outright praise. Several clusters of children gathered about his legs and demanded a dramatic retelling. He admonished them lightly, sent them back to their waiting mothers, but he could not do the same with the adults who stalled his journey at increasing intervals, each listening eagerly to the brief yarn that the mayor offered in a rich, tired voice.

*

The thieves were shipped to Arras posthaste. It was the most frozen day of the year thus far when they were bundled out of the town jail and into a waiting carriage, chains clinking as they shuddered in their meagre clothing. Edouard, the leader, pulled the smaller Pierre behind him. Awake but scarcely coherent, Pierre blinked at the sudden light of day. He looked less like a convict and more like a kit.

Shivering himself, Madeleine watched with pity. In such weather the air smelled of cold, dancing sharply up the nose and congealing in the throat, rubbing ears and noses red. “I hope the carriage is warm, or they shall die of the chill before they arrive.”

“They will die anyway,” Javert replied. “Attempted murder of an officer of the law will almost certainly buy them the guillotine.”

“Better that than the bagne.” His quiet mutter was almost lost in the brief baying of the growing crowd gathered on the cobbles, smaller for the weather, no less louder in spite of the size.

Javert glanced at his companion, then back at the carriage to observe Edouard being manhandled in, a lick of fire in his spirit rising up as he made a desperate attempt to flee. Pierre narrowly avoided another clout to the head, which would not have helped his already weak disposition. “I suppose you are right,” Javert eventually replied. “Although hearsay does not do the prison justice.”

“Speaking of hearsay –“ One unfortunate gendarme received a sharp knock to the nose, and there was a panic as the crowd tried to assist in the apprehension of the criminals. “I had an impromptu visit from Mme Brackley and Fantine mere hours after our eventful morning. I cannot imagine how they found out.”

“I told the other policemen of it, for the sake of reports. If they passed it on, well, that is scarcely my fault.” At that moment, Edouard gave in and boarded the carriage with a sullen grumble. Javert nodded in approval. “It is no bad thing that the town knows. Trust and appreciation for authority reduces crime, improves the wellbeing and happiness of the people.”

Certainly, many had congratulated Madeleine since. It reminded him of the event with the cart, years before. Old Fauchelevent had not been his friend by any means – rather, the man loathed him for political reasons – and he had found it a struggle in his soul to endanger his life. What if someone had questioned his strength? Respectable men did not have the power to lift carts, much less one with a full load such as that had been, and for nights and nights he had catastrophised about an imminent discovery. To his surprise and relief, he was offered only an outpouring of love.

“You are right as ever, Javert.”

“I know.” Clattering hooves announced the departure of the carriage. “Please, Monsieur. You saved my life. It was not going to go hidden.”

Such was the nature of his position. Madeleine opened his mouth to argue, then shut it sharply, listening to the idle breeze of chatter and the creak of Javert’s leather gloves as he retrieved his cane. He remembered how those gloves had taken his hands and how the mighty Javert had bowed so eagerly, offering his loyalty.

So long as that remained between them, he could cope with the town knowing.

“Tea in my office, inspector?”

“I have some time before my shift,” Javert said airily, looking down, although Madeleine felt as though he were towering far above. Perhaps it was the inspector’s fond smirk that made it so. “Please, Madeleine, lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u all for the comments it's the nicest thing and atm i appreciate the hell out of nice things
> 
> also i'm gonna link the playlist for my elusive modern au (gasp). it's never ever going to get written, moooostly because it's a screenplay and not really suited to fic. be glad for this. it's not a fix it, it's a worse-it, and holy god, javert-centric gritty noir shouldn't be ALLOWED. anyway. if you're curious and love some indie angst, it's [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/psychso/playlist/7jvk4Rb0uyKqvEgTs6ZVa7)
> 
> <3


	8. Burgeoning

Given the time, space, open air, Fantine had grown back into herself. The worst of the tuberculosis had been two years since, and Madeleine suddenly found himself in possession of a vivacious and healthy friend.

Chalk skin warmed to pale; while she remained lily-white, it was in the fashionable way, a stark contrast to Madeleine’s own complexion. Cropped blonde hair was short no longer – she wore it in ribbons, allowed Cosette to twist it into braids, sang silly songs as she brushed it on a morning. Plumpness was gathering cheerfully about her chest and arms. A bright light of life shone from her gaze. Where once had been spite and despair, now there was gratitude, a Christian heart reunited with her God and her daughter.

She was quite unrecognisable from the spitting vixen that Madeleine had wrenched from the grasp of the gendarmes. Besides jaunting about town with Mme. Brackley, she practised fine writing and reading, until Cosette complained about the piles of books that were growing throughout their house.

“I have been employed,” she told Madeleine one November morning. They were preparing Cosette for her last day of school before it shut for the winter, tying her hair in celebratory ribbons. “Which dress would you like, sweetest?”

“That one,” Cosette said, pointing greedily at her favourite blue frock. “With the matching coat!”

“I will fetch it.” Searching through a surprisingly large collection of child’s clothing, Madeleine frowned, before extracting a small wool coat. It, too, was duck-egg blue, and finished with brockade. “What is this employment, Fantine?”

He handed her the coat and she smiled, catching it on the crook of her arm as she simultaneously flicked a ribbon into a bow. “Sophia wished for me to assist with her library. It is very large and in desperate need of reorganising, and while she devotes some time to it, there is scarce enough to deal with it all. So she has asked me. And afterwards, she mentioned requiring an assistant to pen her letters.”

“It is kind of Madame Brackley to assist you. How much is she paying? Or is there some other arrangement?”

“Oh, she offered something ridiculous, 3000 francs a  _ year _ , but I told her no, for she already invites me to dinner enough that it would not go to use. We will work it out. Any excess would go to Cosette anyway.” Fantine finished her last bow and kissed her daughter atop her head. “We seem to live endlessly on your charity and on hers, but I can scarce complain when you both were sent by God himself.”

Madeleine touched Fantine gently upon the shoulder. “We wish only for your happiness. You have suffered; here is your mercy, well earned.”

“Can I put my dress on now?” Cosette asked, agitating her legs.

Both adults laughed. “Of course,” Fantine replied. “Hurry, dear.”

Picking up her dress in one determined fist, Cosette disappeared into her room.

“She has grown so much.”

Fantine’s sombre observation had disturbed them both. Two years since he had retrieved her. Two years! It felt such an age. She had been small, then, from lack of eating, some five years of separation from her mother stunting her happiness and growth. It seemed strange that this stocky girl with long fair braids could be the same child as the starving lark.

“How old is she?” Madeleine asked.

“Ten.”

“Heavens.”

“And people  _ still _ think you the father.”

“Ha, really? I thought that gossip had long since worn out.” Shaking his head, Madeleine listened with amusement as a loud clatter came from upstairs, followed by a muffled apology.

“Actually, I was going to ask you…” Fantine went quiet a moment, twirling a ringlet of blonde around her index finger. “You remember I mentioned – her father. Tholymes.”

Tamping down the immediate flare of loathing at the name, Madeleine nodded. “Of course. What of him?”

“Cosette is getting older, and I stronger. I wondered if you might be able to find him again. So I may speak with him. There are a great many words I have for that man and after my illness I worry about the time I have to say them.”

Madeleine’s immediate inclination was to refuse. Surely Cosette did not deserve that kind of revelation, to meet her father in the circumstances of something like revenge. That said, the girl was no fool. She had asked Madeleine about her father before, received only the dissatisfying answer that he was not here right now, but wouldn’t Madeleine be a good papa instead? And he was, or he tried to be. He secretly passed her pastries when her mother wasn’t looking, he read her books at night, he sat with her and taught her history and letters when he had the time. Fatherhood was a gift that he had never expected and one that he cherished with his every breath.

Perhaps it would do her good to know. In meeting the man himself, she could make her own estimations as to his worth, and decide for herself if she wished to see him again. Indeed, maybe the sight of his daughter, so clever and colourful, would inspire a new appreciation in him. Yet it seemed doubtful.

After all that he had seen, even Jean Madeleine could not find it in his heart to forgive Felix Tholymes. Hoping for anything but the worst of the man was surely a foolishness.

“I will try,” he eventually said, with forced humility. “Although you must forgive my protectiveness. His sins have aggrieved you, and I cannot take kindly to the suffering of a friend.”

As Fantine opened her mouth to reply, Cosette bounded back down the stairs, perfect down to the last button. “Ready!” she announced, and spread her arms so that Fantine could grace her with the coat. “Is papa walking me today?”

“I am.”

“Good! I have so many things that I must do today, and to tell you about.” Stiffened by the thick wool of her coat, Cosette kissed her mother’s cheek as Fantine knelt obligingly. “I love you, mummy. Have a nice day with Sophia!”

“I will. Now go on, be off with you!” Fantine shooed them out the door. “And thank you, Jean. I appreciate it.”

The door shut.

“Appreciate what?” Cosette appeared thoroughly nonplussed.

“It is nothing,” he reassured, and took her hand. “Come then. Tell me, what is so important?”

*

To say that Madeleine was not a detective would have been an understatement; he did not know where to begin on his search.

He was not used to hunting men, rather to being hunted, and while he could offer a hundred ways in which one could avoid the long arm of the law, he was quite at a loss when he himself was the one doing the search. Felix Tholymes was nothing like Jean Valjean. Where Valjean had hidden in sties and pens, read books under the cover of darkness, slipped from town to town as he was gradually transformed from beast to man, Felix Tholymes had suffered no need for discretion.

From Fantine’s account, it seemed that he had simply disappeared. Made an amusement of a pretty woman for the summer, sired a daughter, then drifted away into autumn as a leaf would, without a single backwards glance for the lover he left behind. Rich men had such astonishing powers.

Better, perhaps, to ask what Madeleine would do.

Again, he found himself with over a million francs awaiting him in Paris. An unwritten plan had long since been formed – if Madeleine was uncovered, he would try and take out his money, ready Fantine and Cosette and run away with them to England. To procure a passport was an easy task when one had so much money to give away.

Yet still…

Flipping through his address book idly, Madeleine found himself still dissatisfied. What need had Felix Tholymes for new identities or false passports? Fantine’s abandonment was no concern of the law.

It was no good. He sighed and penned several identical letters to Paris – the police, the banks, various wealthy men he had come to know through parties and politics. Each missive politely inquired as to the whereabouts of one Felix Tholymes. Each missive returned with a carefully negative response.

It was not reassuring.

*

Chewing pensively over his meal, Madeleine listened as Javert rattled off his report.

Thirteen counts of petty theft. A possible criminal gang operating from a town in the south. Four complaints about one small house on the dock. Two men caught brawling, three prostitutes arrested for extortion, one bar shut down for inspection. And so on.

He watched the amused curve of Javert’s lips and he mused on the contents of the letters. From the wording of them, the man was definitely in Paris. Yet for some reason, every establishment was loath to offer up his address, as though it were a danger. Could he truly have risen to such heights as to be protected by the state, prefecture and all? Madeleine had no great love for the police, but did not think that they could possibly be so corrupt.

“And that is all,” Javert finished. “Nothing irregular, for this time of the year. Montreuil continues to do you credit.”

“Do  _ us _ credit.” Searching half-blind for his wine glass, Madeleine noted how his friend was sitting, straight backed and uncomfortable. “Are you quite well?”

“I spent my day crammed into a tiny fiacre with Jerome.”

“I am so sorry.”

“You cannot imagine. Forgive me, I must stretch.”

At that, Javert set his cutlery down and stood, trying to loosen the ache from his arms. Watching the rumple of his shirt, Madeleine was reminded with sudden clarity that this man was here, in his home, sans coat and stock. The shock of it rendered his mouth curiously dry.

Then he had a thought.

“Say. Can you keep a thing quiet, if I ask for your assistance?”

A brief expression of alarm crossed Javert’s features, and immediately set into stony determination. “Of course.”

For a moment, Madeleine was surprised with the surety of the answer. What if his request were criminal in nature? He refused to believe that the inspector would be happy to disobey the greater of his two masters, and yet –

“Are you being blackmailed?” Javert began a circle of agitated pacing. “Extorted? I would doubt it of you, Monsieur, but I am well versed in –“

“No! No, nothing like that.” A raised hand stalled Javert’s motions; he gave a curious frown. Madeleine chuckled. “No great catastrophe. I am trying to look for a person. Felix Tholymes. Only I am a poor detective, and you are a fantastic one. You seemed the man to ask.”

“Quite right,” Javert said, and his pleased smile was entertainingly free. “Who is he?”

“Ah, here’s the rub.” Madeleine sighed. “He is Cosette’s father.”

Set upon surprising Madeleine that night, Javert’s expression became thunderous with hate. “Ah. Him. If I had known that you knew his identity, I would have wrung it from you far sooner.”

“I would not think you so invested, it is touching.”

“I have no great love of fathers,” Javert snapped, and covered his mouth. “Hm.”

“I suppose I should not ask you why, Javert.” Only some strange life could have brought about Inspector Javert in all of his majestic height and brutality, and while Madeleine was naturally inquisitive he doubted that he would like his discoveries in this particular area. Family seemed only to provide heartache, and in his own he was lucky. The death of his parents stung, yet it was a minor pain in comparison to the beatings he had heard tell of from fellow boys in Faverolles, and the neglect he had witnessed in the Thénardier household. Cosette was growing up fair and sweet, so what heaviness of hand or loneliness in youth could Javert have suffered to make him so?

“If you asked, I would tell you, Monsieur. I can deny you nothing.” Javert sounded untroubled but Madeleine frowned.

“You need not take your debt to me so literally –“

“As a  _ friend _ , Madeleine.” Was Javert insulted? He wheeled about on his heel to face Madeleine, placing one hand upon his chest, hovering over a heart that once had seemed nonexistent. “I believe that is what friendship consists of. Although you will not ask me to talk of my past.”

“No.”

“And I thank you for it. Maybe someday I will tell you.”

“Unbidden?”

“Bidden, unbidden, it scarcely matters. It is not the time for it.”

“No. Your plate is unfinished.”

Javert took his seat once more.

Later that night, as Madeleine retrieved Javert’s coat and stock, he allowed himself one indulgence. “Javert,” he said. “You must know, whatever your past, I have only respect for you. I would never pry where I am unwanted. You need never tell me anything that you would rather hide away. It does not matter.”

Stalling as he shrugged his greatcoat on, Javert huffed. “Do not speak so quickly or rashly, Madeleine. You cannot pass judgement on things that you do not know.”

“I know you  _ now _ . That is more than enough. What is done is done.”

“It is easy for you to say, Monsieur, when you must have enjoyed an honest youth –“

Madeleine tutted. Despite the strange intake of breath it elicited, he finished the job that Javert had started and began to button the coat. “All men have secrets. It does not make them bad.”

“Hard to believe that of yourself,” came the gruff reply. “Still. Thank you. I must be going.”

“Goodnight, Javert.” It was said with a good humour, and Madeleine stood at the door and watched as the Inspector walked out into the night, a hulking shadow slowly lessening. Foolish, maybe, to hint at secrets and misspent youths. Madeleine liked to think that it would make him look more honest in the eyes of the Inspector, if he did not wholly play the saint. In that, he was right – and he was suddenly guilty in the recognition of his wilful manipulation.

*

Looking over his desk with some embarrassment, Madeleine gave a gesture of apologetic welcome. Earlier that day he had been entertaining Cosette as Fantine was busy with her new work, and Cosette’s school had closed for the impending winter months. Wanting to keep them both busy, he had taught her how to paint. Brushes were strewn over important papers. Depictions of Fantine grew more confident with each sheet of paper.

“Do not worry, Monsieur le maire. This will not take long.” His secretary was holding a letter close to his chest. “I merely wanted to speak to you about our finances.”

Taking his lighthearted tone as a good sign, Madeleine sat at his chair, and watched with tented fingers as his secretary mirrored the action across the desk. “News from Paris, I take it?”

“Indeed.”

“All is well?”

“Astonishingly so. Currently, your personal wealth rests at –“ his secretary unfolded the letter and peered down at it. “- 1,560,322 francs. Your recent business decisions have gained you significant interest from investors, and I fear that at this rate they will try to press the Legion d’honneur on you again, Monsieur.”

“The whole town may stop speaking to me if I refuse it.” Madeleine gave a tired laugh. “Still… one and a half million francs!”

Looking over his spectacles, his secretary nodded. “Time to use them, I dare say.”

“You are quite right.”

They had this conversation every time Madeleine’s finances reached a certain swelling point, both men being of that generous mind which sees only potential improvements to the town and never the need for personal gain.

But – by  _ God  _ – it was so much money. Madeleine was always troubled by his wealth. As a young Jean Valjean in tiny Faverolles, he had barely possessed two sous to rub together, rarely enough to buy sufficient food for the family, and then nothing at all. Starting the factory had been dreamlike. He was, it seemed, a million years from those fields at home, the trees he had scaled for the minimum of pay, and once the money had started to accumulate alongside the bishop’s gifts, it was all he could do not to go pressing napoleons into the hand of every man he met. His hunger belonged to another lifetime; he remembered it all too well.

For the last year, Madeleine had watched the numbers grow. There was more than enough for a serious project, yet he could scarcely think what that project ought to be, or who needed his assistance most. While he wanted to offer comfort to all, it was a fundamental aspect of his sensibilities that work be encouraged. Work was dignified. It offered satisfaction, purpose, a routine, a way to combat the absolute boredom of poverty.

And again… that distant memory, just out of prison, wandering from town to town as he was beaten and cursed, nothing to do, no honour to speak of. If he could succeed in anything, saving others from such a fate would be a fine thing.

“I will leave you to think on it, Monsieur le maire." The letter was placed atop a roundly smiling Fantine. “And you must encourage the child to continue with her art. She has a good eye.”

It was true. The hair was a touch too yellow, but that was the fault of the paint. Cosette was already talented, and it filled Madeleine with pride.

*

The days passed uneventfully, and one Sunday afternoon Madeleine made use of a rare moment of peace. Winter or not, the restoration work on the small public park was lovely, and he enjoyed the quiet crunch of his boots against the frost. Slender trees coloured black against the white of the sky. Robins danced teasingly about and hid away in the underbrush. Besides the birds, he was entirely alone.

In the stillness, and in the silence, Madeleine dared to remember that which he forced himself to forget. Or, at least, to try. Faces escaped him. Where he once had been able to see Jeanne in his own visage, he was so much changed by prison and by his new life that the resemblance was lacking, reduced to the colour of the eyes and the persistent ruddiness of his skin. While his curls were untameable, they had garnered an air of respectability, hard won.

Drawing up by the pond, he looked into its half-frozen depths, and pondered the ripples of his reflection. He saw it, and he called it  _ Madeleine _ , and he smiled in the knowledge that he was safe.

At that moment, a distant sound started up and came inexorably closer – the sound of feet on grass. Madeleine turned.

He did not often see Javert running. Occasionally he would catch the man in the corner of his eye as Javert pursued a criminal, but he spent more time lurking in the shadows, cane secreted in his coat and ready for any kind of beating. Now the Inspector hurried towards him with undisguised cheer. “Monsieur le maire! I have it!”

“Inspector,” Madeleine said, and caught Javert on the shoulder as he drew close. “Good day.”

“A good day to you.” Digging about in his seemingly endless coat, Javert fished out a letter, and pressed it into Madeleine’s gloved hand. “As you requested, Monsieur.”

Madeleine peered about the gardens and found them quite alone. “Is it advisable to open this in public?”

“No harm can come of it,” Javert replied. “The place is quite deserted. I have not seen a soul about since midday.”

Taking the leisure of one final glance, Madeleine found the envelope already opened, and pulled the paper out from within. A short missive detailed a Parisian address, a law firm, and the name of one  _ Felix Tholymes _ . “Gracious. I commend you on your efficiency. May I ask – how?”

“Of course. Should we walk some, Monsieur?”

Madeleine nodded. They set off on a slow circle of the pond, both careful to avoid the treacherous patches of ice that had permanently formed along the path. “So,” Javert began. “So, I likely followed your initial method of inquiry. I penned letters to my superiors, innocently enough, and received a surprisingly sharp reply from each. Perhaps that is not so odd – it would be an annoyance to have continuous requests about a man who they cannot reach. Yet I sensed something amiss.”

For Javert to suspect that a thing was awry generally resulted in a foregone conclusion. “I was right, of course,” he added.

“Of course,” Madeleine echoed.

“Being well within the graces of my patron, I wrote to Monsieur Chabouillet, on the off chance that he could assist in my search. Would you believe it, he knows the man personally. It was he who gave me the address.” At this, Javert fell silent. An expression of great discontent crossed his face. “And the street is a wealthy one.”

Madeleine did not recognise the name. His infrequent jaunts to Paris required only minimal knowledge of the capital, usually flitting between a rented room and mayoral duties, frequenting the local café and procuring an indecent number of its pastries. “I suppose you are wondering the same thing as I,” he replied. “Why his house was barred from us.”

“I have a theory,” Javert said, and it was plain that he did not like it one bit. “It is likely that he has ordered that any inquiries from Montreuil be fended off. A rich lawyer has powers extending far beyond his purview. Fantine was unlucky. Assuming he knows of her original birthplace, and of his child…”

“He was hiding.” Hatred, which already had settled hard in Madeleine’s heart, burst within him and he had to refrain from crumpling the papers in his hand.

“It is only a theory,” Javert muttered, unconvincingly. “I would rather it not be true. It would make my superiors complicit, and –“

Whatever Javert thought of this was conveyed only in a terrible twist of the mouth. Words did not lend themselves to his confusions.

“In any case,” Madeleine said. “Thank you, Javert. It was good of you to do this for me.”

“Oh, it was nothing. Fantine may not like me, but it is right that the girl get a chance to meet her father.”

“You did not lend yourself to liking, when you first met her.” Christmas had been almost a year ago, and still the discomfort of that dinner table was fresh in his mind. Madeleine shook his head and laughed. “She respects you. Friends – maybe you are not that – but Cosette enjoys your company, and Fantine has warmed over time. Trust does not come naturally to her.”

“As one might expect, I suppose.” Returning now to their original position, Javert paused. The beaten path to the park entrance spread before them. “Does it take your unearthly kindness to enjoy the likes of myself, I wonder?”

The question chilled Madeleine. Did the Inspector ever challenge the apparent self-loathing that plagued him? Was self-loathing even the correct term? Could any normal thinking or term apply to Javert? His easy confidence and assurance did not seem a mask. Regardless, his anger morphed to indignation.

“No! Do not say such things.” Madeleine’s tone was obviously too injured; Javert burst out laughing.

“My sentimental friend,” he said fondly. “I must continue with my rounds. You could accompany me, if you are not busy yourself?”

Still displeased, but lacking argument, Madeleine bowed his head in acquiescence.

*

Madeleine hoped Fantine would answer the door soon. The raw redness of his nose had not worn off from his walk with Javert, despite a long afternoon sat desperately by the fire, hoping that the warmth would seep into his bones. Noises clattered about from within. Realistically, he could enter without asking, and was stalled at the invisible barrier of his politeness. Fantine said as much when she opened the door to a frozen mayor shifting his weight from foot to foot.

“Silly man.” She plucked his coat from him and steered him towards the rug by the fireplace, where Cosette was sitting and reading through a children’s book. “You are always welcome, you know that.”

“But I don’t wish to intrude –“ he insisted.

“Oh, please, as though you do not own this house just as much as your own. Do you want me to make dinner? I have been planning a lovely stew.” Patting Cosette on the head as she passed, Fantine drew up a chair next to her own, and gestured for Madeleine to sit. She took to her comfortable armchair and picked up her knitting.

“I would appreciate that.” His own pantry was starting to look frankly bare. Hosting Javert weekly and visiting Madame Brackley’s mansion on a semi-regular basis had produced an odd reality in which he simultaneously needed both a great deal of food and very little whatsoever. “But I did come to talk to you about something.” He patted down his clothing until he found the crinkle of paper against his leg, and extracted Tholymes’ address. He held it out. “Here. Javert found him.”

Fantine immediately understood. Hesitating slightly, she took the paper, smoothing it out, knitting needles resting upon her lap. For a moment she said nothing.

“What you choose to do with this information –“ Madeleine whispered, and smiled faintly at Cosette’s head snapping up with interest. “ – whatever that may be, know that I wholeheartedly support you.”

“What’s going on?” Cosette asked.

“Nothing just yet, sweetheart.” Folding the page in half, Fantine leant back into the cushion of the chair. “You must thank the Inspector for me, Madeleine. He was kind to help.”

“I will.” Looking at Fantine felt like an intrusion, so Madeleine watched Cosette as her finger slipped over the words of the page, mouth curving around the letters.

“But I do not think that I will use this just yet. It is so close to winter, and I have just started with work, and… Cosette, darling?”

“Yes, mummy?” She did not look up from the page.

“Are you happy?”

“Very, mummy.”

“Okay. Then it can wait.” She sounded relieved. “I need to unwind my feelings anyhow.” The slip of paper found its way into the pocket of her dress, and Fantine stood, needles falling to the floor. “Right. Dinner. Would you believe, Sophia has invited us to stay with her for the next  _ week _ as we work through the supplies for Christmas? Her parties must be a luxury.”

“I might actually accept her invite this time.” Parties seemed less intimidating now that he had welcome company - Madeleine had resolved himself to avoid any extra contact with Mme.Brackley in previous years and was certainly the fool for it. “Indeed, I feel quite bad for ignoring them,” he said. 

“I cannot blame you.” Fantine stretched, and smiled a wicked smile. “She has a strong personality. Any man would feel intimidated.”

Madeleine could scarcely respond to that. He opened his mouth, shut it again, and laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
> 
> chrimmy chapter next (appropriately). thanks for all the comments, I love you all <3


	9. Yuletide and Song

In little more than a blink, it was Christmas once more.

Much of what Madeleine had once done alone became a group effort. Fantine and Sophia planned the réveillon, Javert took over the care of the factory with surprising grace, and Cosette delighted in setting up the decorations. All in all, Madeleine found himself with time to spare, and dedicated it to the worthy act of sleeping.

“You look well,” Fantine noted, basket in hand. It was overflowing with greenery, wreaths lining her arms like overlarge bracelets. “Relaxed.”

“That is one word for it,” he replied, and leant  upon his doorframe.

“Although, your cravat is askew. And half of your buttons are wrong. Have I interrupted something?” She peered over his shoulder, as though she were expecting some answer to appear from his rooms, and Madeleine flushed in confusion.

“I was asleep when you knocked,” he explained, sheepishly. “Or, some way between asleep and awake. Hence,” he gestured at his half-ready attire.

“Ah.” If Fantine looked faintly disappointed, the expression did not last long, and she shook one of the wreaths down her arm and into her free hand. “I was only going to give you this. Cosette decorated it specifically for you.”

That much was obvious. None of the other wreaths were so profuse; it dripped with red berries and holly, the supporting twigs all painted in yellows, reds, greens and a brown sludge where the colours had started to mix. “It’s beautiful,” he effused, taking it and finding the pin that rested in the middle of the door. He hung it there and smiled. “Thank her for me – although I shall certainly do so myself.”

“Of course.” Fantine curtsied with amusement. “And Sophia has said that she expects you in the afternoon on Christmas Eve, but to send your gifts ahead of time. She is rather fastidious about these things.”

“Believe me, I am well acquainted with it,” he replied, and they parted, Fantine going to hand out more wreaths and Madeleine resuming his strange period of relaxation.

*

Madeleine arrived at the Brackley mansion by midday on Christmas Eve, two bottles beneath one arm and a bag of food cradled in the other. _Perhaps I am too early,_ he worried, dithering at the bottom of the stairs. _Oh, and I could have carried more. Perhaps I should have gone to the factory for longer. Or, indeed, stopped at the Mairie, it is rude of me to leave all the work to the –_

Thankfully, his train of thought was halted by one of the main doors flying open, an excitable Cosette appearing at the top of the steps. “Papa!” she cried, and almost tumbled down the steps in her eagerness to see him.

“Oh. Hello,” he said, and chuckled as she bobbed awkwardly at his feet. “I will hug you when I’ve put this down - Fantine has arrived already?”

“We stayed overnight,” she announced. “And Monsieur l’Inspecteur got here an hour ago!”

Thinking on that made Madeleine’s heart freeze. Relations between Javert and Mme. Brackley had been notably frosty since that eventful summer night, and while she had been relatively happy to forgive Madeleine of his transgressions, she was less gracious to Javert. Probably because Javert had only seen fit to apologise two months later, in a glacial exchange of words that Fantine alone had witnessed. From her account, it was lucky that they had not started arguing about something else entirely in that brief discussion. Given that Javert had nowhere else to go on Christmas, Madeleine had asked that the inspector be included in the festivities - this accompanied by the underlying assumption that Madeleine would always be present to mediate.

“We should go in,” Madeleine replied, voice a nervous wheeze. “It’s cold out here for little girls.”

“I’m not little!” she admonished, but set off up the stairs. “I’m ten!”

“That’s little to me,” he said, shifting the bottles carefully as he went.

“But you’re nearly, what, a  _ hundred _ . That doesn’t  _ count. _ ”

They stepped into the entrance hall, a butler discreetly taking the wine and food from Madeleine to squirrel it away in the kitchens. Freed from his burden, Madeleine ducked down and hugged Cosette, who hugged back with surprising strength. “I am not quite a hundred,” he said, ruffling her hair. “How old do you actually think I am?”

“Uh.” She tapped at her chin. “Twenty.”

“That is very far from a hundred. And no. Even your lovely mother is not  _ that  _ young.”

“Thirty?”

“Higher.” He stood up and took Cosette’s hand. “Quite a bit higher.”

“Fifty!”

“Higher even than that. But less than sixty.” Madeleine did not often think on his age, and shared some of Cosette’s surprise as her eyes ballooned with curiosity.

“Fifty… five.” He shook his head. “Fifty six! Fifty seven!”

“Yes. Fifty seven.”

His last birthday had not been so long ago. He could not quite remember the date – only that it was at the tail end of the year, and so he and Javert had shared a discreet drink one night and talked at length about the strangeness of ageing. Javert had been almost comically shocked by Madeleine’s age, because  _ surely _ he could not be that old and have none of it show on his face, he looked not a  _ day _ over forty. Base flattery, Madeleine had said, and Javert had insisted that he did  _ not  _ flatter –

“That is quite a lot older than ten,” Cosette muttered, with some consternation. “That is a lot of Christmases.”

“None are so lovely as these. Now, where is your mother?”

With a confidence that spoke of many visits, Cosette led Madeleine through the hallways into the largest parlour room. Soft piano music steeped the room in whimsy as Fantine played a sweet song. Mme. Brackley and Javert were sat on the sofa and talking in hushed tones, both visibly trying to be polite, although disagreement would occasionally slip onto Javert’s face and quickly be ushered away again. Tasteful candles offered a gentle glow. Fantine’s wreaths dotted the walls, framed by well-tamed greenery. In the corner sat the tree, already flowing with presents underneath. Madeleine recognised his own offerings amidst the clamour of coloured paper.

Both Javert and Mme. Brackley turned to look as they entered, Javert’s countenance brightening immediately, Sophia’s softening in recognition. “Good day,” she called. “Easy travels?”

“Easy enough.”

Shedding his hat and coat with some relief, Madeleine joined the pair on the sofa. Madame Brackley was dressed very conservatively in comparison to previous outfits, wearing a pleasant blue dress with modest frills and a diaphanous shawl. More unusual was Javert, who was not wearing a single item of work clothing besides his gifted gloves. Instead he was dressed in a new dress coat, grey waistcoat and fresh shirt.

“Have I something on my clothing?” Javert asked.

“Have you – what?” Madeleine blinked in confusion.

“You were staring at me with some intensity. I thought perhaps –“

“No, no, it is – you look very well indeed.” Sinking further into the fine sofa, Madeleine was gifted with a glass of brandy from a maid who appeared and disappeared with such haste, he didn’t so much as glimpse her face. “Oh,” he said. “I didn’t get a chance to thank her.”

“My staff are very capable,” Sophia said, swirling the drink in her own glass. “I treat them well.”

“That much was obvious.”

Sitting and chattering and getting pleasantly drunk, they whiled the hours away. At one point Fantine and Sophia sat next to one another at the piano stool and played inexpert Christmas songs, troubling the butler so greatly that he almost begged to take their place. He, by comparison, was a grand master. They all sang along to carols, Javert’s low voice swelling into a fantastic tenor.

“You have some talent,” the butler noted, shuffling pages of music about. “The town choir is always looking for new singers.”

“Impossible,” Javert scoffed, and gave an exulting smile when he thought that nobody could see.

Cosette was in the unfortunate position of being both impatient and humble. For five years she had experienced nothing enjoyable at Christmas time, and had no memory of Christmases before. Her sole point of reference was in the year prior – in which Madeleine had done everything out of order due to Fantine’s illness and the girl’s relative youth. As such she knew nothing of the full  réveillon , its late meal and midnight mass, the opening of the presents at unholy hours. In her impatience, she demanded a family game of  _ hide and seek _ , taking up the whole mansion.

Madeleine tried not to skid on the polished floors as he hurried away from the main lounge, eyes darting about in search of a place to hide. His criminal’s instinct had, to mixed horror and delight, kicked in without a second thought.  _ If I do not win this, _ he thought,  _ it will be something of an insult. _

That said, Javert was a policeman. And Cosette a child. Both of them also possessed a naturally wily nature.

Trying to muffle his footsteps, he ascended the carpeted staircase to the upper rooms. A corridor stretched into the distance on either side; he turned left along it, then right, and happened upon a storage cupboard. No – too obvious. He slipped into Sophia’s main bedroom, wrinkled his nose at the pervasive scent of lavender, and ducked into her wardrobe. By flattening himself against the back wall and rationing his breathing, he doubted that anyone looking in would notice him amongst the hooped skirts and dresses.

He was right. Cosette opened the door and took a cursory glance before shutting it again. Ten minutes later, Fantine did the same. It was only once all three of them were calling out and hurrying around the house that he revealed himself.

“You are wilier than you look,” Sophia said. “But it is good that this took so long. Our meal is ready.”

If the meal the year before had been homely and delicious, the dinner that Mme. Brackley had devised was luxurious in the extreme, and still fantastic despite the pangs of guilt that Madeleine brushed away. They started with fresh oysters and lobster, which only Sophia knew how to eat properly, and they fumbled through an impromptu lesson in table etiquette.

Javert snorted when the main course was brought out. “Did we really need the turkey  _ and _ the pheasant?”

“But of course,” Sophia replied, tamping down her biting tone. “I may be English, but if I am to take part in French tradition, I shall do so  _ properly _ .”

Fantine and Cosette ate in quiet amazement. Madeleine, who was more accustomed to the dining of the rich, made easy conversation with Javert and Madame Brackley; while Javert was clearly out of his depth, he gave no sign that it bothered him in the slightest. Even when he choked midway through his intensely alcoholic  _ trou normand, _ he managed to maintain a half-dignified expression.

Midnight arrived far faster when the hours were hurried along by food, and they only managed to make a dent in the Bûche de Noël before Madeleine insisted that they set off for the church.

*

Standing silently in his pew, Madeleine kept his fingers from the flame of his candle and tried to focus on the words of the priest.

It was difficult, with Javert standing at one side and Fantine on the other.

Gratefulness to the Lord overwhelmed his breast, and he feared he might break down in tears from the wonder of it all. Christmas touched his sentimental heart, which he deemed appropriate, but it made it difficult to engage in the divine mysteries at its core when he was so overthrown by his material existence.

Yes, the candles were beautiful. Yes, there was the air of the divine about him, captured in the incense and the yule songs, the dancing of the saints on the coloured windows as the lights gave them new life. His Lord and Saviour watched him from his cross with an expression of absolute adoration. Yes, Madeleine noticed and revelled in all of these things, but now he also grinned at Cosette’s quiet antics, and the needlessly acute way in which Javert attended to the mass.

In his faith, Madeleine had attempted to clamber up towards irreproachability. He was fallen, he knew, he would never escape the blackness of his old self, or the duplicity of his identity. It was all too easy to pretend that Jean Valjean did not exist by light; in the darkness, he felt that old presence, and it repelled him. Yet in his worldly interests, he found himself less pious. Where he had once attended mass multiple times a week, he now went only on the Sunday, when Cosette and Fantine were free. Where he had abstained from drink he had begun to indulge in it when Javert visited. Where once Champmatheiu would have torn him asunder from pure guilt –

Why, he had quite forgotten.

This, it seemed, was the price one paid when they gained friends. Madeleine did not wholly trust in the safety of his immortal soul. Still, the idea of leaving his new life behind was unthinkable.

The priest raised the host into the air. Madeleine bowed his head.

*

Upon returning, they made a cursory attempt to polish away the last of the dessert, and gave in. “We can eat it tomorrow,” Sophia said. “Chocolate is difficult to waste.”

Despite the hour, Cosette was alert and vanished beneath the tree as soon as the meal was finished, emerging with parcel after parcel. Within moments she was surrounded by little toy soldiers (Javert’s choice), two finely painted dolls (carefully picked out by Madeleine) and brand new knitting needles and wool (Fantine and Sophia’s attempt to inspire yet more creativity in her).

“Thank you for the shawl,” Fantine said, catching Madeleine on the arm. “It’s lovely.”

“You’re quite welcome.”

“And mine,” Sophia added. “Did you choose them specifically to match?”

“Perhaps. The merchant said they were more beautiful as a pair.” Madeleine shrugged. “In any case, they suit you both very well.”

For Javert, he had bought a diminutive black notebook to replace his old one, and a pair of sky blue and silver cufflinks. He caught sight of the inspector eagerly rebuttoning his cuffs. “I like them both very much,” Javert said gruffly, and thrust a small package at Madeleine. “Here.”

Madeleine scarcely managed to withhold the urge to rip the paper off in one motion. With controlled hands, he unpeeled one corner, opened the parcel at one end, and tipped its contents into his open palm.

It was a rosary. Black beads snaked along a finely woven rope, each engraved with a the head of a rose, the crucifix bearing a minute effigy of Jesus. It was plain that every inch had been painstakingly worked to create a beautiful piece of art.

“The wood is from an olive tree in Jerusalem. That much is true – the crafter claimed that he had sent it to be blessed by his Holiness the Pope himself, but it is more likely that it was a local bishop. In any case, I saw it and thought of you. I just hope it is enough.”

“How could it ever… not be enough?” Madeleine breathed. The beads slipped through his fingers, though it was due to their fine polish, rather than age. His current rosary had been worn down from constant thumbing and use. He appreciated it for exactly that reason, but _ this – _

“I did not get you a present last year. I was in your debt.”

“Hardly. It is wonderful. Thank you.” At that he secreted the rosary into his waistcoat pocket and patted it fondly.

There were presents aplenty, and Madeleine found himself in possession of more alcohol than he would ever have bought for himself, and several brand new shirts. Somewhere in the distance the clock was striking two, and Cosette was lying asleep in the middle of the carpet. Madeleine was rather grateful when Sophia directed him to his guest bedroom and he finally passed out on the rich eiderdown.

*

“Wake up.”

For the first time in years, Madeleine awoke to Javert looming over him. He took a moment to place himself at the right point in history, rubbed at his eyes, and yawned. “Oh. Good morning.”

“Merry Christmas,” Javert corrected. “It is midday already.”

“I slept for ten hours?” Madeleine extracted himself from the sheets and groaned, kneading at his head. “Why did you not wake me sooner?”

“I, too, overslept. We are none of us used to this type of celebration, I feel. Well, save for Madame, who saw fit to play Père Noël in your absence.  _ Three  _ napoleons she left in the girl’s shoe. I doubt any other child in Montreuil has enjoyed such handsome wealth.”

“Indeed.” With a good-natured smile, Madeleine stood. “Now, I suppose we should eat.”

“You have good ideas, Monsieur.”

*

Feeling decadent and well-fed, Madeleine spent the day in sluggish preparation for the ball. Attendance was mandatory, but was less of a chore when he could appreciate the comfort of his brand new shirts, and chatter about whatever topic came up amidst the choosing of dresses and curling of hair.

As the hour approached, they got trapped in a polarising argument about Napoleon. Madeleine argued in his favour, along with Fantine, whom he suspected of supporting him out of pity. Sophia and Javert were united in their disdain. It was a strange moment of agreement, until they realised that he was a monarchist and she a republican, which proved a far more significant divide than any Bonapartist belief. In the middle of making some great, meandering point, Madeleine felt a sharp pinch in his calf, and yelped. Cosette looked vindicated as she settled her hands on her hips.

“Heavens, child! What do you want?” Madeleine rubbed away the pain, and frowned. “Are we boring you?”

“I would say so! My hair isn’t finished.” It was true – while most had been pulled into a bun atop her head, curling ringlets still sat around her face, creating a strange impression of mess. “And you wouldn’t stop talking.”

“I apologise. Adults are always terribly dull, I’m sure.”

“To say the least,” she muttered, with a dry sarcasm that could only have been learned from Javert.

Thankfully, her outfit did not take long to fix. The ball started far earlier than would be expected, as the bourgeois took advantage of the mid-afternoon sunset and the excuse to drink as much as possible. Electing to take the Brackley fiacre – for the estate lay some way outside of the town walls, in the centre of many fields lying fallow – the group let Cosette do most of the talking. She chattered away, inspecting Javert’s cudgel with childish entertainment.

“Be careful with that, now,” Javert said, but it lacked any heat. “It’s beaten many a man.”

“It’s all scratched!” she announced, and promptly tried to hit Madeleine with it. He gave an undignified shriek and pretended to be cross as she fell about laughing.

“Terrible child,” Madeleine muttered. It did not bother him long, for he was caught up in the socialising he would soon have to participate in, the dull decorum of the upper classes that he could barely pretend to know. Still, he had the child to think of; they could scarcely blame a man for choosing to leave early so that they could eat.

They pulled up behind another carriage, stylish strangers piling out into the snow and hurrying through the open doors. Fantine, Sophia and Cosette left together, giggling as they lifted their skirts in a pleasant flock of pastel silks, trying not to slip on the ice. Madeleine watched them disappear inside and turned to Javert.

“Are you ready, friend?”

“It is strange to go to a party in a capacity that is not… work.” Javert hummed. “I am ready,” he said, and offered a gloved hand.

They crossed the short distance hand-in-hand, and arrived with some relief in the warm foyer. Madeleine brushed the snow from his hat and coat and handed them to the butler. After some thought, Javert did the same with his hat, and smoothed his dress coat self-consciously. As before, a selection of the rich and thoughtless made an immediate beeline for Madeleine. Only, where a woman would once have greedily clasped his arm, Javert stood steadfast at his side, every inch the loyal protector. Much of the eagerness to talk slipped away from the businessmen and excitable women when they caught sight of the humourless inspector.

They unhooked themselves from a conversation on wheat and approached the butler by the door, who was clutching a guest list in hand. “Evening,” Madeleine said.

“Ah, a Merry Christmas to you, good sirs. Please go on in.” The butler bowed, and turned his head. “ _ Monsieur le maire, Jean Madeleine, and Monsieur l’Inspecteur Javert.” _

Ignoring the applause that was not meant for him, Javert descended the steps and left Madeleine to hurry behind. Their surroundings were almost familiar. Given the fashions of the day, and the fact that the organisers were the same as the year before, the hall was decked again in tasteful décor, lit by candle and softened with red flowers. Sophia, Fantine and Cosette had already joined the fantastic mesh of colour. Determined to enjoy himself for once, Madeleine made his way to the corner of the room, evading would-be conversational partners with practiced ability.

“Where are we going?” Javert asked, weaving through three disgruntled women. “We shall leave the ball behind at this rate.”

“A moment of quiet. Besides, I wished to dance with you first, before I have to entertain the others. If you wish to?” A knot unwound in his gut as Javert stilled, and inclined his head ever so slightly in agreement. He took Javert’s hand. “Will you lead this time?”

“I am the taller - it would make sense,” the inspector said, and led them gracefully into position.

It could have been a year ago. Very little had changed save for the way the men looked at one another, with honest smiles rather than politeness and difficult conversations. They existed in perpetual delight, neither much inclined to talk to anyone else that evening besides one another.

“Have you been practicing?” Valjean asked, rather entranced.

“Once or twice. It was stimulating for the mind.” Javert basked in the stares they received, stares that had not been present last time. “In any case we are a small sensation.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that you would enjoy it.”

“A little. I enjoy it a little.” He smiled, a little less wolfishly than usual.

“Admit it. You crave the drama.”

Javert clicked his tongue.

Many of the eyes that watched grew hungry, some women plainly wishing to steal Javert’s position when the music changed and grew more upbeat. Yet the men did not part – their hands remained steadfastly clasped as their feet quickened, incapable of escaping the moment that they had created. Where Madeleine usually kept a close internal watch of his steps, he found that the actions became thoughtless and free.

“The men usually dance when there is no other partner,” Javert noted, audible only to Madeleine. “And yet you ignore the others.”

“I am enjoying this,” Madeleine answered honestly. “Have you tried to dance around a skirt?”

“No. For which, I suppose, I should be glad.”

“This is far easier.” A slower number came on. The aggregate frustration throughout the room grew as Madeleine took position closer to Javert’s chest, and found himself staring up into surprised eyes. To take so many dances was dangerous, and this would have to be the last.

“You must dislike dresses a great deal.” Javert sounded breathless from the exertion of the previous dance; he had been more greatly affected than Madeleine.

“I think, rather, that it is more about my enjoyment of your company,” Madeleine said, then frowned. “Are you quite alright? You’ve gone rather red.”

“I’m fine,” Javert muttered, looking away to hide his flush.

They danced in silence. At some point, Javert closed his eyes, moving by instinct alone, smiling discreetly. Warmth soothed Madeleine where their bodies met; he realised, with a jolt, that they had likely never enjoyed such closeness. Only once the music had stopped and they forced themselves apart did he notice that Javert had removed his gloves. The inspector was pulling them back on with brusque motions.

“Thank you for the dances,” Madeleine said, and bowed.

“I should thank you,” Javert replied, and purposefully bowed lower. “Now, go and appease the masses.”

And so Madeleine did. Easing himself into the matter, he danced first with Mme. Brackley, and they laughed together at the confused chatter it inspired –  _ for hadn’t they ceased courting?  _ To confuse things further, he danced a quick jig with Fantine. Then he released himself fully to the arms of the party at large.

Many fashionable ladies claimed him for a dance. Amidst the swirl of motion and colour, he caught sight of Fantine and Madame Brackley standing and talking together, both looking wistful. Cosette appeared and disappeared, weaving through couples. On occasion there would be a great clatter of feet as she accidentally tripped someone up. And throughout the whole thing Javert stayed stoic against a pillar. A champagne glass sat primly in his palm, emptying and refilling as time went on. Madeleine winked at him as he swept past and chuckled as Javert almost dropped his drink.

Eventually, Madame Brackley peeled herself away from Fantine and interrupted Madeleine’s umpteenth waltz. “The dinner will be done soon, and if we wish to eat anything that is not glorified desserts –“

“I understand,” he replied, and after a quick apology went to look for Javert. He did not have to look far – the inspector had not shifted from his pillar but was listing down it, still sipping from a dangerously full champagne flute.

“Hello, M’sieur,” Javert said, and tried to pull himself to attention. “Apologies, I seem to have drunk more than I meant to, only the butler passed by here so often, and he kept offering, and it seemed impolite to refuse, but –“

“You need not explain.” Madeleine propped Javert up with one arm and noted with some amusement the happy humming that started up in response. “Come on. Dinner will be ready.”

*

All pleasantly tired from the dancing and the company, the group piled into a fiacre and hurried along to Madame Brackley’s mansion. Javert talked animatedly about an arrest. Ample champagne made him oddly verbose – Madeleine sank into the velvet seat and listened without comment, chuckling in the right places. When he was not engaged in half-sober tales, Madeleine watched the world of white pass silently outside of the window. The snow that hammered against it was harried in its falling, as though it had something to prove beyond the upsetting of their horse. Once they had arrived at the mansion he stood a moment at the top of the steps and observed the town walls rising proudly in the distance.

For a brief moment he was struck with adoration at the sight of the town that he had so graciously been allowed to govern.

His sentimentality was cut short as he was whisked away to dine. Compared to the meal the night before, it was simple, but he enjoyed it immensely, and observed the novel display of Javert sobering up.

“I suppose we should be going,” Fantine sighed, rumpling Cosette’s hair in passing as she gathered together their belongings. “It is already late.”

“Please stay a little longer,” Sophia begged. “I shan’t keep you another night, of course. I just –“

She paused, and caught Fantine’s eye. Fantine dropped what was in her arms onto the nearest armchair, and drew close, head tipped in curiosity.

“Would you like to –“ Sophia had taken Fantine’s hand nervously, and laughed breathlessly when Fantine nodded and settled herself into position. They danced without music. Instead of swaying to the sound of a violin, they danced with the rhythm of their discussion, which started innocuously enough and then abruptly hammered into the topic of women’s rights and, by some unknown connection, theodicies.

Whatever Madeleine was witnessing, he was infringing upon it, and felt suddenly rude. “I am going to get some air,” he whispered to no-one in particular, and was unsurprised when Javert followed him into the hallway.

“I had underestimated their closeness,” Javert said. “Why, they cannot have known each other for long, and they seem dearest friends.”

“Well, I have only known you a year,” Madeleine reminded him, and the lie slid from his tongue with forgettable ease. “And I would consider you a dear friend.”

Javert raised one eyebrow. “Fantine must be your closest.”

“You would be surprised. It took a long time for her to see me as an equal, rather than a benefactor. Considering her trials, and her – past knowledge of men, it was hard to cast blame, but,” Madeleine grimaced. “I disliked it intensely.”

“Remember my pay? You are my benefactor also.” Javert gestured to his waistcoat, and the shine of his boots. “I could not have afforded these a year ago.”

“I do myself a service in that regard. You look very well,” Madeleine said, and waited for the curiously apoplectic expression to take over his friend’s face, the look that Javert increasingly wore when complimented. “And it was just. By God, you hardly seemed to eat, and you work all day!”

“I was angry at the time, and I consider it still justified, but I also must thank you. This winter has not been nearly so tight.”

At that, the clock in the main foyer rang half past the hour.

“It seems a shame to part them,” Madeleine said. “But it  _ is _ getting late - “

“I will do it.”

With his typical singularity of purpose, Javert stalked into the room. When he returned, they were all packed and ready for leaving, although Fantine and Sophia shared a longing look as they waved goodbye from opposite ends of the main hallway. “Safe travels!” Sophia called. “Rest yourselves!”

Efficient as ever, the butler had already called for the private fiacre, which loomed in the darkness outside.

“I would say that was highly successful.” Fantine hugged her new shawl around her.

“A fine affair,” Madeleine agreed.

*

The fiacre paused outside of Javert’s lodgings, two men stumbling out of it and into the darkness with a promise from Madeleine that he would not take long.

“You need not have walked me to my door,” Javert said. “It is hardly a distance.”

“I wanted to see you off. It’s hardly as though they will mind.”

Javert smiled, fished out his key, and unlocked the door. He half-turned back. “Well – “

“Goodnight,” Madeleine chuckled. “Sleep well, Inspector.”

Javert seemed to hesitate. He offered a small smile, looked away, covered his mouth with his hand for a brief second. When he spoke, the words were quiet. “Goodnight, Madeleine. Merry Christmas.” And in a moment of daring, Javert hugged him.

Out of instinct, Madeleine froze. He melted into the motion by inches. Javert’s warm breaths ghosted across the curves of his ear. “Merry Christmas,” Madeleine said, incapable of hiding his grin as they parted.

A twinge of something as yet nameless buried itself in Madeleine’s heart as he watched Javert disappear into his rooms.

It was a portent.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: suddenly gets very ill on christmas eve  
> me: oprah_shrugging.gif
> 
> happy christmas/holidays all! i'm technically posting this on boxing day, but i'm assuming most of yall are american (i know the ducklings are) so... meh, close enough. i hope everyone had a great day and has an equally great new year!!


	10. The Hand of God (pt 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY THIS IS SO LATE im in the process of dropping out of uni for a bit and its stressful   
> but i hope this chapter will make up for its lateness in other ways  
> im going to aim for fortnightly from now on

By the time February came into full force, Madeleine had grown so used to his way of life that he could scarcely remember a time when Javert had not visited weekly, or when his beloved neighbours had not spent much of their time with Sophia. He was contented – those that he cared for had grown in their joys, and he could not help but do the same.

On the seventeenth he opened his door to find a grumpy Javert holding a bottle of wine and a grudge.

He did not immediately ask. He did not have to, for Javert being Javert, the focus of his ire came up in conversation by itself, once they had opened the bottle and begun to mete it out in over careful portions.

“I hate Valentine’s,” Javert complained, and Madeleine laughed. Yes, that would certainly be enough to draw a cloud over the man’s face. “I have arrested no less than three overzealous paramours trying to climb into the windows of their sweethearts.”

“You cannot begrudge young men their loves.” Madeleine smiled. “It makes them sweet.”

“Foolish.” Javert gave Madeleine a strange look. “I suppose you have received some cards yourself?”

“Oh, I always do. Fewer, this year.”

‘Fewer’ meant four. The handwriting in them changed from time to time – one woman would give up and another take her place, and the designs chosen usually linked previous senders together. Until that year, Madame Brackley had always made a point of sending one. Madeleine only knew this because she never failed to sign it. Instead he had received two with birds on them (both recognisably from repeat senders), one with a rather beautiful lace rim (an unfamiliar hand, and a  _ secret admirer _ , so he hardly had any way to respond.)

Most strangely, he had also been given a blank card. The outside was beautifully decorated with a winter scene; it looked more appropriate to Christmas, only the indistinct embraced figures made that impossible. Without any handwriting to parse the sender, Madeleine had scratched his head at it, and wondered if it weren’t a mistake.

“One of the cards was blank,” he added, by way of conversation. “On the inside, I mean. Curious.”

“Words can be difficult to find,” Javert said, with a heavy pause. “But that is a little strange.”

“And none yourself?”

“Of course not.” Javert shrugged. “As expected.”

Madeleine hummed, a terrible thrill of guilt running down his spine as he found himself glad. For what rose-scented card would be appropriate for the Inspector? “I cannot see you enjoying the frills,” Madeleine said, by some way of consolation.

“Quite right. There shall be no scaling of the walls from myself, although I would venture to suggest that I would be far better at it than any of the lovestruck ninnies about town.”

“I am sure. Although I do hope that I shall never have to deal with such a thing when Cosette is older.” Madeleine peered morosely at the cards, all stacked on the mantle.

“The girl is  _ ten _ ,” Javert reminded, rolling his eyes. “Leave tomorrow’s worries for tomorrow. You have many years of peace yet. Besides which, should any unwelcome man make himself apparent, I will let him know he is unwanted. I am scarier than you.”

“I am stronger,” Madeleine said.

“You have the reputation of a wildflower. I would venture that I am the only man who has seen you  _ truly _ angry.”  

“Ah, so you were not there when –“ Madeleine sipped idly at his drink. “The man got into the factory?”

He immediately had all of Javert’s attention. “No?”

“It is not a complicated story. Well, it must have been a few years hence, in the summer. It can grow warm in the factory and while my women workers have uniforms I fashioned a lighter dress for them to wear when it grew too hot – it would not do to have them pass out, or become sick. They deserve a comfortable existence. In any case, we had been having issues with a man trying to get into the women’s room. Not a worker. A complete stranger.”

“I think I can see the outcome of this,” Javert muttered.

Madeleine nodded. “As I said, it is not complex. So. On the day they were allowed their new uniforms, it must have inspired some great desire in him, for he finally managed to break in. When I heard of the shouting, I hurried out of my office, and found him being beaten by five women.” 

The scene had bordered on amusing, Madeleine remembered, the sight of the intruder cowering away as the workers cried for blood, the heat and the undertone of turpentine. 

“I would venture to guess that I had never shouted so loudly in all my days. The women all fled back to their positions, although my ire was not directed at their self-defence. I didn’t raise a hand against the man, but once I was done speaking with him, he near fainted.”

“You had him arrested?” Javert asked, with a desperation that spoke of one too many mercies at Madeleine’s hand.

“Yes. I would not have my workers be threatened.” 

He remembered also the smallest of his factory girls, who had sobbed in his arms afterwards, told a tale that had sickened him to the heart. For once, prison justice was well within his moral code.

“I almost wish that I had seen it,” Javert said, tapping his foot. “You are so often so unassuming. Yet there are so many violent men. I ought to be glad that you are not one of them.”   

*

Peering through hedges with anxious need, Madeleine found Montreuil’s  _ diacre  _ tending to the parish garden in spite of the frost, removing pebbles from the dirt and setting them aside.

Having worked and studied under the  _ curé _ for a healthy few years, Albin was well on his way to a full realisation of the priesthood, although he differed from his master in many ways. Where the priest was steady, monotonous, clever but uninspiring, Albin retained the sweetness of his youth. He spoke of the Lord convincingly and with deep affection; when Madeleine had the fortune of running into the young man, they shared conversation that left the Mayor with more questions than answers.

Like a monk, Albin often stayed cloistered within the realm of his church, and the modest rectory that he kept neat. It was the flowerbeds beside their front door that he was now tilling with excess patience. Madeleine had wrapped himself in his thickest coat and still shivered at the sight of Albin wearing the simplest of garments.

“Hullo,” Madeleine called, making his way to the gate. One of its hinges was half-rotted from weather exposure; he frowned at this as he swung it open. “Monsieur, good day.”

Albin’s head rose from his work with a slow grace, and he smiled. “Ah, Monsieur le maire. A good day to you also, my brother. Is all well?”

“Well, I was hoping to find the good  _ curé,  _ but he was not in the church.”

“My apologies, Monsieur le maire, but he is currently out. I believe he is visiting one of our older parishioners so that they may enjoy communion. May I instead be of assistance?” At that, Albin stood, brushing the dirt and frost from his knees.

Madeleine took momentary stock of the deacon, overwhelmed with a kind of nostalgia. It seemed ridiculous that a man in his mid-twenties could embody something of Bishop Myriel, yet Albin did, in his demeanour and love of all men. “It is a matter of confession,” Madeleine said, and removed his hat humbly. “I have a great many things to confess.”

“All men do, Monsieur le maire. Then I would not have you stand in the cold any longer. Come in, sit at our table, I shall ply you with a touch of our wine.”

While the rectory was finer than Madeleine’s home, it was not much finer. A burbling hearth shone from the furthest wall of the dining room, lighting upon the small circular table that, the  _ curé  _ insisted, had been gifted to the town’s parish in the previous century. Albin provided a glass of wine and set out bread and cheese on a pewter plate.

“This is not the usual atmosphere of a confessional,” Madeleine chuckled. “I call it most unorthodox.”

“The Lord shall hear us just as well from here,” Albin said. “And you appear troubled. Conversation is good medicine. When did you last go to the confessional?”

“Before Christmas, I believe – two months since.”

“That is not so long,” Albin shuffled the plate closer to Madeleine, prompting him to take a slice.

“I made a habit of going monthly. As of this year I have been lucky when I managed it every other month.” Madeleine chewed thoughtfully on the bread, finding it plump and nourishing and undoubtedly homemade. “I feel that I have been insufficient in my devotions to the Church. My attendance has decreased, and I find myself focused more on personal worries.”

Albin pursed his lips. “Let us not consider this a confessional. For what I am about to say would be inappropriate.”

“If you wish,” Madeleine said.

“I would doubt that you are aware of it, Monsieur le maire, but it is to the relief of many that you find yourself in your current position. Myself included.”

“What do you mean?”

“It is not natural for man to be alone,” Albin said, with a careful tone that avoided any tell of judgement. “Which is not to cause you offence. But if you have found a cause for happiness in this life, then it is God’s gift that you have done so, and no sin on your part.”

Madeleine worried his lip.

“What I am saying,” Albin clarified, “is that it is good for you to have friends. And, indeed, I commend you on your befriending of Monsieur l’inspecteur. It was a kind gesture and surely not unappreciated.”

The comment awoke a sort of indignation in Madeleine’s chest, such that he glared at the glass of wine as he supped at it, and set it down with a certain vengeance. “It was not pity that moved me. I am very glad to count Inspector Javert among my closest friends –“

Albin lifted a halting hand. “I would rather become a  _ curé  _ than an inspector. The police are held in such terrible regard, such suspicion. So, I call you kind. I do not suspect you of pity, Monsieur le maire, and you are good to have done so nonetheless. It obviously has given you much joy.”

“I still feel that I have abandoned my post –“

“Monsieur le maire, you have read Augustine?” Albin’s look had grown intense.

“Of course.” Madeleine tapped his foot impatiently. “What of his teaching?”

“I am sure, then, that you will remember his teachings on grace. We are saved  _ sola gratia,  _ through grace alone. And do you believe you have God’s grace?” Albin asked.

“I am most certain of it,” Madeleine replied, chastised.

“Then I am also certain that you do. His grace is sufficient if you will accept it, and while good acts are of course valuable, we would do to remember that it is by the cross we are saved. As it says in Ephesians -  _ For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast _ . Your charity and mercy, it is beautiful and devout. Yet I think the Lord would not grieve over an increased absence in his Mass, when the man absent is a fulfilled member of his flock.” Albin smiled, stood, and gathered a rosary from a nearby table. “Would you like to pray? To ease your mind.”

“I would appreciate that very much.” Retrieving his own rosary from the pocket against his heart, Madeleine leant his elbows against the wood of the table and ducked his head, listening to the gentle thumps of Albin doing the same.

They prayed a decade together. As Madeleine shifted his fingers, he traced the engraved petals on the beads, slick and smooth under his touch from the resin. Albin’s voice was rich and practiced, slipping from the  _ Our Father _ to the  _ Hail Mary _ , Madeleine producing a muted echo, calmed and still thoughtful.

He used his gift from Javert very frequently, before bed, chasing the beads around their string until his mind was clear. It had been that way for the first month of the year, at least. In recent nights his mind had clouded with memories and musings and half-forgotten conversations with the inspector, until Madeleine awoke to himself and found he had stopped praying and was simply kneeling, pain shooting from where his knees dug into the floor. Javert’s voice and countenance imprinted against his eyes and left a confused whirlwind in the pit of his chest.

Madeleine did not cease in his echoing of the deacon, but frowned as remembered words rose up, unbidden. The pleasant  _ merry Christmas _ that Javert had offered him, so many nights before, and the unexpected embrace that followed, both of these things teased at Madeleine’s memory and made him sigh as Albin recited the final  _ Amen. _ They had not hugged since, although he wondered often if Javert wished to. Propriety never seemed to allow for it.

“Thank you, Monsieur,” Madeleine said, tucking the rosary away. The expiation that used to follow a confession did not arrive, and he was unsettled. “Is there anything else I should do?”

“I would suggest a donation, but it would be quite wasted on yourself, Monsieur le maire. The Church could be run on your givings alone.”

“Ah…” Madeleine rubbed at the back of his neck. “I have another conundrum. I do not suppose that the Church is in requirement of any large amounts of money? For renovation, perhaps, repairs?”

“I do not think so.” Standing, Albin disappeared into a side room and reappeared with a worn notebook, which he read with the tip of his finger. “Not currently, Monsieur le maire. Do you find yourself with too much money?”

“Yes, and I do not know how to use it. I have enough that I feel I should embark on another of my projects, yet I want it to be something new.” Madeleine tapped his fingers on the tabletop. “It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle…”

“Is a man rich if he does not consider his money his own? I cannot help you, Monsieur, but perhaps you might ask your friend the Inspector? I’m sure that he would have many a suggestion,” Albin said.

Of course. Javert worked about town, with the people, and would know what they needed most. It was a response almost laughable in its simplicity and Madeleine felt quite stupid. “Oh,” he said. “That would be a good idea.”

“Excellent. Now, did you wish to continue talking, or have you places to be?”

Almost sheepish, Madeleine turned his chair to make discussion easier, and the deacon chuckled. They talked about theology and mercy and understanding of scripture until the sun was low beneath the skyline and the  _ curé  _ returned. They invited Madeleine to dine with them and he accepted.

*

A few days later, Madeleine stopped by the police station with a message.

Jerome was sitting at the main desk, scribbling onto a piece of paper.

“Good day,” Madeleine said, tipping his hat.

With a start, Jerome coloured and slipped the paper away, blinking up at Madeleine. “Good day, Monsieur le maire. Are you here to see Inspector Javert?”

Barely registering the immediacy of that assumption, Madeleine nodded. “If he is not busy.”

“He is out at the moment. Something about a barn. Do you want to leave a note?”

“If you would be so kind,” Madeleine said, and watched as the gendarme drew up a clean sheet of paper. “Simply tell him to meet me in the office of the Mairie between now and six, or else find me in my home. It is not a matter of terrible urgency.”

Jerome repeated the message as he had written it, and Madeleine nodded in satisfaction. “Excellent. Thank you very much, Jerome. And keep drawing. A gift for drawing faces may help catch criminals.”

The blush, which had been light enough to ignore, reddened deeply and spread to the tips of Jerome’s ears. “Thank you, M’sieur le maire.”

It was cruel, really, to expose him in such a way, but Jerome was a young officer and it showed. Javert had less than no patience for him, and Madeleine would not want to talk to the boy for more than five minutes, but he was harmless enough. Just inexperienced.

Waiting and working in his fine office, Madeleine found himself in anticipation of Javert’s arrival. The guest chair was ready and waiting, tilted at an angle, as if eager to be used. Hours trickled past, until it was nearing five in the afternoon.

Madeleine supposed that the ‘something about a barn’ was taking a while. It was not a useful phrase. Perhaps there had been a fire, or a theft, or some criminal damage to a building. Perhaps they had caught a band of escaped convicts hiding away in the straw. It was something Valjean had done, once, despite the horrible prickling against his skin and the raw smell of the animals. In spite of himself, Madeleine hoped it was not escapees. Although they would be very far from Toulon.

There was a knock at the door, and his secretary peered in. “Monsieur le maire. Monsieur l’inspecteur to see you.”

“Ah, good. Let him in,” Madeleine said.

Javert did not look any different to his usual self when he walked in. He was perfectly buttoned, hat under one arm, hair neat and slicked back, but Madeleine could feel the exhaustion that he exuded. “Monsieur le maire,” Javert said, conscious of the door still closing, and then collapsed into the free seat once he was certain of their isolation. “I am so sorry,” he breathed, wiping his brow. “The case was an annoyance. I did not mean to be so long.”

“No, you need not apologise. If I’d known you would be so tired, I would have told Jerome to let you rest first.” Madeleine caught Javert’s grateful glance upwards. “I only wanted to ask for your assistance on a matter.”

“Not a legal one?”

“Not quite,” Madeleine said. “No, I am not being blackmailed.”

“Oh. Good,” Javert chuckled, then frowned. “How did you –“

“You seem to have little trust in our common men.” Madeleine ran a hand through his hair and smiled. “No, it is not to do with me, not truly. It is a case of money.”

“Are you having troubles? Is the factory failing?”

“Quite the opposite,” Madeleine sighed. “I have too much, and I do not know what to do with it.”

He continued, “There is far too much for me to hoard it away. And yet I wish to perhaps do something new.”

“How much exactly?” Javert asked, with a nervous lilt that suggested a fear of the answer.

“As of today, over 1.7 million francs. In my personal effects.”

There was a pregnant pause. Javert was staring at Madeleine as though he had grown a second head, with a look of surprise that was uncomfortably unfamiliar on the policeman’s face. “You are quite serious?”

“Entirely.” Madeleine chuckled. “Are you alright, Javert?”

“One million, seven hundred thousand… I could not comprehend such a number.” Javert looked about the office and snorted at its simple decoration. “You could afford twice the life that Madame Brackley lives.”

At that, Madeleine blinked. “But I would not want it. Besides, the money is not mine to use.”

“You earned it fairly. Why shouldn’t you?”

“It belongs to the town. Were it not for the industriousness of my workers, then I would not be so lucky – by God, it would be theft to use it for myself.” 

What use could he possibly have found for all of that wealth? Other men would have bought palatial mansions, a fleet of well-bred horses, the affections of all the important men in the land. Madeleine did not lack the imagination to dream up such things, but he abhorred them. 

“Tell me, Javert. If you were in my place, what would you spend the money on?”

Javert paused. A great many calculations and thoughts crossed his face, accompanied by a look of continuous uncertainty. 

“Well,” he began, and halted.

“You understand me?” Madeleine tented his fingers. “We are both frugal men.”

“I see your problem. Life in excess does not become you. Although a house with a study would  _ surely _ not be a sin.” At that, Javert barked with laughter. “Well, then! I suppose I should assist you. If you believe that I can.”

“I do. You spend your time on the streets, you know the people, you know what they need. We have schools for the children, orphanages, money to the poor. But you know their lives more intimately than I. You are a protector of the people, where I can only throw money at them and hope that it will be sufficient.”

From the word ‘protector’, Javert’s face took on a journey of discomfort, until he was covering his mouth with his palm and looking for all the world as though he were guilty of a crime. “Hm.”

“Have you any ideas?” Madeleine asked.

“None that you could not come up with,” Javert said, through his fingers. “You need only to ask what people  _ need _ . Shelter, food, skills.”

“So – houses?”

“Apartments, maybe. Where you pay for upkeep, or ask for only minimum rent.” Javert uncovered his face, now musing. “If they are not asked for the money, they cannot be breaking the law when they do not have it. It would be a constant drain.”

“I already pay for maintenance on the schools and the hospital,” Madeleine noted. “How many apartments?”

“How many poor have we?” Javert asked. “Many. But this would be with the aim to move them elsewhere once they have work, encourage them to branch into new towns, perhaps. It would mean opening adult classes in the schools, in the evenings.”

It was not a bad idea. It was not often that Madeleine went into the business of building housing; usually he left that to the odd land developer who wished to build within the town walls. The idea of being a landlord to anyone but Fantine and Cosette had daunted him. Yet perhaps it was time. If he built apartments, big enough to house families and at least as comfortable as his own simple home, it would keep the poor out of inclement weather. Give them space. Free teaching programmes for those who wanted them – literacy was valuable, mathematics also. And if he simply added some kind of kitchen into the equation, with free food for those who needed it…

The plan took on a sudden reality in his mind.

“This will be a grand development,” Madeleine said, with a grin. “It is a good thing that I have the money. Thank you, Javert. Although I am almost surprised at you for suggesting it.”

“It will reduce crime, and benefit society. I may not think much of your handing out coins, Madeleine, and I will be open in my opinion of such behaviours. This is not the same. Allowing people to better themselves and work honestly will benefit us threefold, rather than encouraging begging.” The words that Javert spoke were harsh, and still he appeared mollified at himself, surprised. “I will help you as much as you require.”

“Hm. You would not mind, then, if I called you a partner in it? I will need your help in choosing the land, and the housing, and such things.”

Thumbing the ridge of his top hat, Javert pursed his lips. “If you wish for it, Madeleine.”  

“Thank you. But, if we  _ are _ to be partners in this venture – “ Madeleine flushed curiously, and ducked his head. Even if he had planned the words, they were a struggle to say. ”I would like for you to call me Jean.”

A creak of leather betrayed the shift of Javert’s gloves, fingers tensing around a warm palm. 

“Really?” he asked. “No. That is a stupid question. I only regret that I do not use my given name, or I would extend the same. Thank you, Jean.” Javert smiled in bemusement. “I confess, it feels strange to use it.”

There was a danger in this. When forming his new identity, Madeleine had considered taking a different Christian name, and decided against it. It was a necessary reminder, at times, and besides, there would be over a hundred ‘Jean’s in Montreuil alone. But to hear it from Javert was still a surprise. It would be terribly easy to append the  _ Val-jean _ to that name, string the words out to his true identity. And it was a name that Javert remembered.

_ Does he still know my prison number?  _ Madeleine wondered, and quickly tucked that line of thought away.

“It seems we have a plan,” Madeleine said. “Which is much more than I had an hour ago.”

“And on Friday we must have a toast to our future success,” Javert added. “Indeed, I think this calls for some snuff.”

“Your sole vice.”

“It is not a bad choice, I think,” Javert said, opening his snuffbox. “Are you sure you shan’t try it?”

In recent months, Javert had started to offer his snuff on the rare occasion that he had a pinch in the presence of Madeleine. “You could never conduce me to want it. I would sneeze.”

“That is because you are unpractised. It takes time.” But Javert did not press it. He took his pinch of snuff, and gave a satisfied sigh. “And we shall be seeing even more of each other?”

Madeleine had not thought of that.

There would be many months of planning, talking, meeting with builders, corralling the community to help. Later, there would be the teachers to interview, the cooks to hire, rooms to decorate. All with Javert by his side to offer opinion and experience. They already met almost every day, be it by accident or on purpose. It had long since been the case that Madeleine saw Javert equally as much as he saw Fantine – although she was busier, now.

“I imagine we will,” Madeleine said.

“The townspeople will accuse me of monopolising you,” Javert muttered, but he did not seem to mind.

*

It was merely another night when the nature of things shifted, a Friday evening in what was proving to be a balmy April; another weekly report that had devolved into the enjoyment of wine and warmth. Two man sat before the fireplace and talked, smiled, offered jokes that flitted between witty and earnest depending upon their author. Three books sat beside Madeleine’s chair from when he had tried to argue a point about literature, finding Javert well-read, but only in the dreariest non-fiction. Then Madeleine had slung a half-honest insult about heartless policemen and watched as Javert chortled in response.

Like many things, Madeleine’s moment of realisation was absolute.

When he had stolen from Petit Gervais, his epiphany had been void of dignity, awash with guilt and the basic desire for  _ forgiveness _ , chasing the boy with his newfound conscience like a loyal dog on his heels. The discomfort of his salvation had bordered on torturous, slow and doltish, then fervent. In many ways it embarrassed Madeleine to think on his burgeoning morality and the circumstances of its imperfect birth and conception.

He would not be embarrassed by this. There was no child, no robbery beyond the theft of his own heart from in front of his very eyes as his wry joke made Javert laugh, fascinatingly human for a man who was for so long the traitorous runt. Madeleine was filled with delight at the bright sound of it, the crinkle of the inspector’s eyes, the beauty of an honest smile, the delicate arch of a strong back –

\- comprehension struck Valjean like a bolt. His eyes widened and his breath fled away, face pinking.

Fluttering in his chest was a new heart. Never had he owned such a thing, one made for adoration. His body told a truth that his mind had hidden away like silver, a treasure not for his acknowledgement. It was like finding a napoleon secreted in the floorboards. He did not know what to do with it, and he dared not linger on his discovery while Javert remained in his home, drinking his wine and his company so eagerly.

“Are you alright?” Javert asked, still with a smile on his face. “You have turned positively crimson.”

“I am fine,” Madeleine managed to croak. “Too warm. The fire was too much.”

“You think?”

The rumbling chuckle made Madeleine wince. With a kind of agony he listened to Javert talk, and tried to answer with his usual speed and comfort, but it was a struggle. If he drank a little more than he usually did, or if he kept his eye cast purposefully down – either Javert did not notice or chose not to comment. The fact that his silence would be a product of politeness, or indeed respect, did not escape Madeleine’s notice. Javert may have been proper but he was not polite with it. He would behave with perfect decorum and still convey absolute distaste. So his kindness did not go unnoticed, and it certainly did not help Madeleine in his sudden problem.

“Well, it is getting late. I should be going.” Javert grinned before stretching out, wolfish in every aspect. “Thank you for the meal, as ever, Monsieur le maire.”

“Jean,” Madeleine reminded, absently.

“Jean,” came an amused echo, Javert pulling on his coat and hat. “Such a common name for such an uncommon man.”

Javert opened the door. Madeleine barely registered the crisp breeze that fluttered in. “Goodnight,” he managed to say. He felt the rosary press against his skin through the thin material of his shirt, that new reminder, the cluster of roses against his heart.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also the 17th feb 1826 was indeed a friday


	11. Cosette

Love.

Madeleine shut the door. The inspector had just departed, and his mind presented the word like the mayoral chain, weighty about his throat.

_Love._

What did he know of love?

Love had been denied him his whole life until now. Jean Valjean of Faverolles – what need had he for _love?_ There were 7 children to feed, there were trees to attend to, and while he had perhaps idly wondered about a wife there had never been anything to catch his eye. Indeed, the dimpling gaze of the milkmaid (who was undoubtedly pretty) was lost on him until it had moved onto another man, who wasted no time in wooing and wedding. As Jeanne had said, if he hadn’t recognised the rather blatant interest for what it was, it was not to be. The thought brought no regret. Why lament the loss of a love he had no interest in?

Toulon? It was laughable. Even if his heart hadn’t turned to ice there was little opportunity for such things. True, men did get ‘married’ insomuch as it could be called that, and there was some level of pomp to the celebrations. Guards didn’t encourage it, nor did they condemn. It was a way of keeping the peace, allowing the men to loosen their bodily frustrations and find solace in the pits of hell.

24601 did not marry. There wasn’t life enough in his soul to find friendship, and cultivating a working bond had been a repugnant idea.

And Madeleine. Dear, pious Madeleine. The businessman turned mayor was usually so polite as to be void of desire. Maybe it was a sin, to be a Christian and to struggle to love, and he had at first. All of his graces and generosity had been done out of goodness and charity. _Love_ came later. General love of his brothers and sisters in Christ. He deflected every attempt to court, every woman’s advance, kept his heart in the arms of the Lord and trusted in that.

So what of this?

Passion bubbled in his gut like the sun. The image of Javert’s smile wouldn’t leave him, nor the sound of the man’s laughter, the scraping low vowels of his speech when he jested, the gleam of his hair in the firelight. Nothing of Madeleine was in this. His kindly mask was inappropriate; Jean Valjean alone was capable of such a feeling. It was weightless, it was blest, it was carnal. He was David on the rooftops and Mary at the feet of her Lord.

For a mad second, Valjean considered running out of the house and kissing Javert until both their mouths were sore and reddened. Heat crackled painfully in his chest.

Yes, he would kiss him. Pleasant, chaste things, and then more, and while he couldn’t fathom what _more_ meant in his euphoria he knew it existed by the eager ache of his mouth. Slip his hands into the inspector’s sleek hair, feel his pulse on his neck. It would race much as Valjean’s was doing now. Fire would complement the warmth of his blood.

By God, it must be so!

Valjean had pulled his coat on and was halfway out of the door when reason overcame his ardour and he paused.

What if Javert didn’t return his feeling?

That thought doused his joy with a shock of jarring reality. Surely Javert would not – he was a friend, and an honest one, and would never entertain such ideas about his good mayor. It was the making of an incredible scandal.

He shut the door and stood paralysed.

That was the least of his problems. Even if Javert could love Madeleine, he would loathe Jean Valjean. Much as Madeleine was more than a mask these days, he was not his own person, and to try and build a relationship would be…

His head thumped against the wood of the door.

So he was to bear this like a cross. Fine. It made sense. What else was his alias for if not for expiation via suffering and denial?

And…

And it was _Javert._

Whose blue eyes had followed him just as closely in Toulon as they did when they shared food. Who had looked down upon Jean Valjean as though he were a beast, just as he did every other man, with all the indifference of a farmer choosing which of his livestock to kill. Who had taken Jean Valjean, when bidden to do so, and had beaten him bloody, and had not even done it with any particular _passion._ It was only his work, after all. Valjean remembered all of this. In Toulon, Javert would gladly have seen his now-friend shot to a grisly rag by the firing squad, if it were necessary.

Yet he also knew the warmth that could grow behind those eyes if Javert were encouraged in his kindness. The way that the inspector bent over to talk to Cosette, mouth curled in amusement, all too happy to answer her questions or tell tales as the context allowed. Once, seemingly by accident, Javert had arrived to dinner an hour earlier than expected, had cursed without much venom and offered to help with the cooking. He had followed every instruction to perfection, and Valjean was sure that the meal had tasted better for it and for the jokes they shared.

So Valjean plumbed his heart and found no perversion in his love. Toulon, which once would have seemed insurmountable, was distant memory. When he looked at Javert, he rarely thought of the torturous shipyard, instead thinking on all the joys that they had shared.

Madeleine sighed a shaky breath and buried his face in his hands.

There was no need for rash decisions. Houses were being planned. A section of the city needed levelling to make way for the changes. His townspeople needed guidance and leadership and it would be of no use to get caught up in a passion – one that he could not even _have_ – at the expense of the project.

“I shall let it rest,” Madeleine said, with a pleasing confidence.

As he was quick to discover, it was far easier said than done.

*

Either by accident or by blessed coincidence, they did not cross paths for another few days.

Madeleine had half-convinced himself that his flash of insight had been grossly exaggerated in his memories, and that, perhaps, he was mistaken. Or, if not mistaken, not so wholly overthrown as he had _supposedly_ felt at the time. Madeleine often considered himself prone to overreaction in emotional matters.

Walking in the thick spring fog, he took a brisk path around the factory and down a few side roads, a circular route with the purpose of stimulating the body before a day of paperwork. Those who were awake and about waved to him; a gaggle of school-bound children cried _père Madeleine!_ as they passed by.

He bumped into Javert quite by accident. The inspector appeared from a side road and almost strode straight into Madeleine’s chest.

“Oh!” he exclaimed, falling back with an embarrassed bow. “Jean! Uh, Monsieur le maire. I am so sorry. I should have been more attentive.”

Madeleine raised a hand in forgiveness, although he was not listening. His mind was preoccupied by the warmth that had rushed to his face at the sight of his friend, and the attractive hawkishness of Javert when he wore his hat, and the fact that, by God, he had fabricated nothing of his feelings that Friday night. Even in this open street he was overcome with an urge to touch Javert’s face and feel the honest heat of him.

“Not – at all,” Madeleine choked, and realised how strange he must sound. “Bon matin, Javert. How have you been? Lately. It has been a few days since – uh.” He scratched at the back of his neck and scowled. This was utter ridiculousness!

“I have been well, Monsieur le maire, although I have little of interest to report.” Javert shrugged. “Are you alright? You look –“

“I am fine!” Madeleine said. “Perfectly well. Fantastic, actually.”

Unconvinced. Javert looked unconvinced – worried, almost – and tipped his hat politely. “Well then… I shall see you soon? We should consolidate our thoughts on those builders. We would do well to begin the physical work before it becomes too hot.”

“Tomorrow?”

“If I am free.”

“Let me know,” Madeleine said, and patted Javert on the shoulder, hurrying past with false urgency. “I must be going. Good day, Inspector!”

Perhaps he imagined the confused _Jean?_ he received in response, pausing only once he was out of sight and could wipe at his brow. Well. This made things – complicated. Behaving so strangely was surely out of the question henceforth, and Madeleine would have to keep his affections well hidden. They had been friends for a long time. It should not be hard to feign his previous friendship without the added feeling.

*

Half a week passed with all the fanfare of a drizzle. Madeleine maintained his composure during meetings with Javert, and found it was more pain than it was performance, although they made some strides in their planning.

There came a knock upon the Mairie office door. Emerging from the endless piles of paperwork, Madeleine called out a brusque _come in_ and quashed the disappointment that rose when it was only his secretary.

“A note for you, Monsieur le maire. It was left on my desk – whoever dropped it off had some business to attend to.”

The small slip of paper that found its way into Madeleine’s hand confused him. He rather thought that it was scented. Well, his curiosity could be sated easily; he opened the paper and began to read.

_Monsieur le maire,_

_I am sorry to write to you in such a manner, and I apologise for the smell. Fantine took to a rose-scented writing kit and it was the only paper I had on hand. In any case, I wished to tell you that Cosette suddenly took ill today, and that we are very much concerned for her health. She was playing mostly as normal in the morning, but shortly after dinner she complained about feeling sick and is now in bed with a fever. We have decided to keep her in the mansion for the time being. As you would expect, Fantine is beside herself with worry, and I myself am most upset at the sight of little Euphrasie unwell. I have sent this note with the butler as part of his shopping errands. Please do visit soon, Madeleine, I think the child would be much soothed by your presence._

_Ever yours,_

_Sophia Brackley_

With all the immediacy he could muster, Madeleine threw the paper down and burst out of his office into the hall, ignoring the confused call of his secretary and making for the entrance. What he needed was – was a tilbury, and thus he immediately set out for the lodgings of Monsieur Scaufflaire. His sole concern was whether he ought to rent it for the day or for the week.

As he hurried through the town he thought he heard a voice calling to him; in rare fashion he ignored it, heading singularly to his goal. It was only when a bewildered inspector managed to catch the back of his coat that Madeleine turned, flushed in apology, and bowed.

“Oh,” he said, unhappily. “Javert. I am so sorry, I was not paying attention – lost in my mind.”

“That is quite alright, I merely wished to…” Javert clapped a hand to Madeleine’s shoulder and looked searchingly into his face. “What bothers you? You seem upset.”

“Cosette has fallen ill. I need a carriage to get to the mansion.” Madeleine wiped at his brow. “The child has struggled enough already, and I want to see her –“

“You know, Monsieur le maire…” Javert smiled nervously. “I own a horse.”

*

Without quite understanding how he got there, Madeleine found himself seated behind Javert on Gymont, hastening across the countryside in a blur of heavy hoofbeats. The experience was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure; while Javert did not utilise any cruelty, they were travelling at an amazing speed. He was a fantastically skilled rider.

Afraid to fall off, Madeleine held on to Javert’s waist for dear life. In spite of the situation, Javert was laughing. “Sorry, Jean, I just –“

The words whipped past Madeleine’s ears almost too quickly to be caught.

“- it’s so _good,_ ” Javert concluded.

Wondering if Javert’s heart was beating as rapidly as his own, Madeleine elected to bury his face into the rough collar of the inspector’s coat and focus on the solidity of the body in his arms. Through the window of vision his position afforded him, Madeleine was able to watch the mansion in the distance grow gradually larger, the persistent jostle of his body promising aches and pains in the morning.

Finally they drew up to the main doors. Madeleine dismounted with a confused sense of relief and disappointment, Javert threatening the stable hand with terrible vengeances should anything happen to Gymont.

“Stop abusing the poor boy,” Madeleine muttered. “We are here for Cosette.”

“Apologies.” Javert watched his horse being led away, ruefully rubbing at his chin.

They were quickly met by the butler, who directed the pair towards a second floor bedroom. Giving only a nod in response, Madeleine ran up the stairs, Javert following at a more wary pace. The door was already open when he arrived; both Fantine and Sophia started in surprise at Madeleine’s sudden appearance. He removed his hat.

“So sorry for my rudeness, I simply –“

Sophia waved her hand. “It is fine. Hello, Madeleine.”

The room was one that he had not yet seen, with delicate curtains, patterned by yellow flowers, bunched around the large windows. A trunk, painted white, was similarly decorated, and matched the mirror above the dresser. Toys laid discontentedly about the carpet. All of the room seemed to converge upon the fine four-poster bed, with its soft crimped linen and Cosette entangled within it. It was a girl’s room – it could only be for Cosette. Sophia had set up a bedroom for Cosette.

“How long has this been here?” Javert wondered aloud, having followed so silently that Madeleine had scarcely noticed his entry.

Nobody answered his question. Fantine was sitting in a chair next to her daughter’s bed, face drawn, clutching Cosette’s little hand like a lifeline. Sophia shut the door behind Javert.

Fantine lifted her head as though she bore a great weight upon her back. Tears had tracked lines of misery down her cheeks; Madeleine immediately moved to her side and perched at the edge of the bed. Seeing her so miserable came as a shock. Her countenance had become so healthy and lost so much of its old suffering that he had half-forgotten her illness – it seemed that she had always spent her time causing a minor ruckus with Sophia, reading and writing and bringing up Cosette.

Madeleine became aware of the other great love in his life, although it was not a surprise. His best friend. He loved Fantine so dearly and so innocently, in a platonic gesture that would have been the envy of even the greatest Greek philosophers, and there was no resistance in him as he savoured his truth.

“What if…” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “It could be –“

“It will be okay.” Madeleine pressed a hand to Fantine’s shoulder. “It won’t be the White Death. You haven’t been ill for some time now, and it doesn’t set in so quickly. She’s going to be okay.”

“Of course,” she replied, huskily. “I just – I cannot help but –“

He leant over and hugged her close.

Slender arms curved around his back and he felt Fantine shake as she wept. With one clumsy, rough hand he stroked her soft hair and whispered gentle words into her ear. Somewhere behind him, the door opened and there came a minute shuffling of feet against the plush carpeting, a final _click_ as it shut. They remained in their embrace for some time. Finally, Fantine slackened her hold and Madeleine let go.

She fell back into her chair and he turned to find the room empty.

“The doctor should be here soon,” she said, exhaustedly.

“Do you want to sleep a little?”

“I look that tired? Well, I suppose I am.” Fantine stood, smoothed Cosette’s hair with aching love, and nodded. “Please wake me when he arrives?”

“Of course I shall.”

Madeleine watched as she left the room, then turned to Cosette, pressing the back of his palm to her forehead. It was warm, damp with perspiration, but not as hot as those of the sick children he visited in the hospital. Where she rested calmly, they would whine and twist under the coverlets, trying desperately to escape the fire that burned them, often in vain. It gave Madeleine hope that this was not so severe.

At his tentative touch, Cosette opened her eyes a fraction and the corners of her mouth upturned. “Papa,” she whispered.

“Hello, sweetest,” he replied, and stroked her cheek. “Do you need anything?”

“I am happy you are here.” Clutching and unclutching at the coverlet, she gave an discomfited whimper. “Too hot.”

“Would you like a rag for your forehead? To cool it?”

She nodded. Madeleine had only to poke his head out of the door and flag down a passing maid, who clucked in sympathy and immediately bustled away. When she returned she had brought not only a flannel but a bowl of water to dip it in when it needed refreshing. It did not surprise Madeleine in the slightest that the staff had taken to Cosette – Sophia, being childless, led a respectful but frequently quiet household. Well, save for her parties.

Dabbing the cool water over her forehead brought some relief; she relaxed into the mattress, smiling gratefully.

“You are normally such a healthy child,” he muttered. “For which I am glad. But it seems entirely wrong to see you ill.”

“I got sick sometimes, when I was with them. I was made to sleep on the rags on the floor and wait it out.” A tightness grew in Madeleine’s chest as Cosette spoke, something beyond anger, a vain fury. “This bed is much more comfortable.”

“You will have anything that you wish, and more.” Madeleine kissed her brow. “I am glad that you have such a beautiful room.”

Her reply was stifled by her slipping off into sleep, a _me too_ or words to that effect. Soaking the rag, Madeleine set it out where she was most feverish and fell slack in his chair, breathing out his feeling. There was no point in it. People such as Thenardiers – they felt no remorse and lied as impulsively as Javert was honest. Monsieur Thenardier had found little to say when the Mayor of Montreuil appeared at his dingy tavern, although his eyes had gleamed with avarice, and he had tried to wheedle a story about his great love of the child.

Nonsense. All nonsense. Madeleine had paid and had hated them and had left with hurried eagerness. And when he had passed through the town a year or so later on business, they were gone.

*

“It seems to be a mild influenza,” the doctor hummed, and shook his head. “Which is not good. But her temperature is much lower than it could be.”

“I have seen – many children die of influenza,” Madeleine murmured. “So that is not soothing.” Standing out in the hallway, he listened for the sound of Fantine’s low murmur lulling her daughter to rest.

“Providing she stays here and is well cared for, it need not prove fatal. Most children are not surrounded by such wealth. Although, she does not look like a bourgeois child.”

“No, this is… new. We will of course pay for anything that she requires.” Madeleine started to pat down his coat for his purse only for the doctor to raise a hand and chuckle.

“You’re quite alright,” he said. “Lady Brackley has a payment system with me. I look after all of the people in this house.”

“What a sensible arrangement.”

“Quite.” The doctor perched his hat upon his head and bowed. “In any case, Monsieur le maire, I have informed Madame Fantine of it. And Lady Brackley knows how to contact me if it is required. And so I shall take my leave – good day.”

“Good day,” Madeleine replied absently, and listened to the distant sound of the main doors opening and closing for the man’s exit.

Influenza. A thousand thoughts sat irrational in the back of his mind; he did not wish to plague Fantine with them.

Leaving the mother with her child, Madeleine descended the staircase and set off in search of Javert. He did not have to look far. Javert and Sophia were sitting in the library, sipping at something, chatting with an ease that Madeleine had not yet observed between the two. Their quiet conversation was conspiratorial. Ignoring the irrational jealous spike that arose as Sophia laughed, Madeleine pretended to take interest in a book; he barely read the title before pulling it from the shelf and opening it to a random page.

It was in Spanish. He sighed.

“I did not realise that you speak multiple languages,” a voice behind him teased, and a soft hand appeared over his shoulder and plucked the book away.

“I do not,” Madeleine muttered stiffly. “Although I am not surprised that you do.”

“My mother is Spanish,” Sophia said, and read aloud from the page for a moment. To Madeleine it meant nothing; he took the moment to glance over at Javert, who was leaning back with his eyes shut, relaxed against the expensive sofa.

“He can be pleasant company when he’s not trying to prove something.” Sophia returned the book to its place and laughed at Madeleine’s expression. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to steal him away from you.”

Madeleine scowled.

“Would you like a room for the night? It would seem unfair to make you do the whole journey again, and it would be no trouble to get a bed ready for you. Indeed, I do not know why I do not have one already…”

“Given what the doctor has said, it might be well that I stay here. I can travel between,” Madeleine murmured. “Although I would need to borrow a carriage.”

She waved a careless hand. “But of course. I shall find you the fastest we have.”

“Thank you.”

Satisfied, Sophia patted his arm and disappeared – to be with Fantine, no doubt. And he was left with Javert. Who was staring at him from the sofa.

“Are you going to stand there all day and pretend to read books?”

Madeleine laughed and shook his head. “No. Sorry.”

He took an awkward seat next to the inspector. From a distance he had been unable to tell what he was drinking; from here he could smell altogether too strongly the rich chocolate. Wondering only that Javert would never have accepted such a luxury a year ago, Madeleine sighed and ruffled his hair.

“You look unhappy again.” Javert supped at his drink. “Which is fair. Although if you wish to talk to me about it, I will listen.”

“Alas, there is too much.” Valjean smiled in spite of himself. “Thank you. It is a matter of organisation only. Being here and managing my many responsibilities.”

Yet it seemed impossible. There was much to be getting on with – his mayoral duties were hardly the half of it, with the paperwork for his apartments almost ready to go, and the potential problems that might arise. While the factory seemed a minor concern at present (for there were many managers at this point), there was no guarantee that some issue would arise needing his immediate attention. But his family was in need of his help. Until now, he’d never enjoyed the reality of a family at all.

“There is so much to _do,_ yet I am worried for her. I can scarcely think how to balance the two and I –“

Madleine was cut off by Javert’s hand coming to rest on his own. All Madeleine could think of in that moment was how rough the palm felt, almost as rough as his labourer’s hands; Javert smiled a reserved, slight smile.

“Jean. Do not worry yourself,” Javert said, speaking as he did to his horse, in soothing baritone. “All shall be well. It is you, after all.”

“And what does that mean?” Madeleine replied, almost in spite of himself.

But Javert just laughed. “All seems to go to rights when Jean Madeleine is in charge, does it not?”

Hours later, as he waved Javert off with a minor stack of requests and messages, Madeleine could not help but ruminate on the words he had used. The inspector truly believed in his mayor. It caused a wistful mood in Madeleine, who wished only that that faith were better founded.

*

Silence was oppressive. In Toulon, Valjean would have given anything for a moment of silence, yet in this fusty bedroom he wanted nothing other than to hear the clear voice of his child. She had woken a few times over the hours, and while she was more lively than she had been the day prior, it was a half-waking, still in the clutch of a dream.

Madeleine dabbed at her brow. Hot broth was waiting, ready for her to eat should she resurface. Sophia sewed in even motions across from him.

Sometimes their gazes would meet.

*

Much as he tried to concentrate, he simply couldn’t. Madeleine let the paper drift from his hands to the top of the stack and rubbed his thumbs into his temples. Sophia’s office smelled too strongly of flowers for him to focus; it was a pleasant scent compared to the varnish of the Mairie or the industrial dust of the factory, but it served to remind him of his situation. A floor above him, still bedbound, was his child. He had not seen his home in the past few days.

There was no point doing a poor job of his work. Often it was worse than not doing it at all, and overlooking apparently minor details, so he stood and left the office with a quiet _click_ of the door.

From where he was, a long corridor stretched out into the house. He took the left path and wandered along aging carpets. On occasion he would pause to consider the paintings that lined the walls, all of the Brackley lineage, which, he supposed, had stopped. The late Lord Brackley peered gloomily out of his frame; his posture suggesting that he wished to lean forward from his position and talk about farming. Madeleine could scarcely remember the time when he and Sophia were married. There were half-remembered glimpses of a dreary old man with a burst of colour hanging from his arm, maybe a few gossiped words in his ear.

Following the pattern of the carpet, he turned right.

To his surprise, light was pouring in from the end of the corridor. Huge glass windows – expensive, surely – looked out onto what he recognised to be a porch. He walked up to it and tried the door, which opened.

He emerged from the tangle of the house into a comfortable spring day. Wooden boards spread out from his feet some distance, before stalling short at a fence or dipping into a set of stairs that met the grass. Rarely did Madeleine see the garden; it was lovely in the innocent light, flowers and trees dimpling yellow and white.

A few chairs were spread out on the slats, vaguely assigned to tables. Madeleine shuffled one forward to look out on the view, and sat, eyes shut, listening to the birdsong.

After a few minutes he heard the door open and close behind him.

“Couldn’t focus?” Sophia asked.

“Unfortunately,” Madeleine replied, without opening his eyes. “I’m trying to get my head in the right place.”

He opened one eye a fraction as Sophia scraped a chair into place beside him.

“I always think how huge this place must seem to you,” she mused. “I wondered when you’d finally give it a look around.”

“I was admiring the paintings.”

“Oh, the family lineage?”

“Mhm.”

Hints of the breeze fingered the folds of Madeleine’s coat. Pulling her shawl closer about her, Sophia ran her hands along the groove of the fence. “It seems strange,” she said. “Strange that the house and the land is mine, when I have no real right to it. I have nothing of their bloodline. I married into it. The house was terribly quiet before I met you all.”

“Better that you have it, than that it should be released to the state,” Madeleine replied. “You know they would simply install some careless bourgeois here, and it would be no different to any other manor house.”

“I suppose you are right.” With an almost nervous look, she tapped her fingers against one another. “Fantine has been in that room an awfully long time. I am worried for her.”

True enough, Fantine had been cloistered away with her daughter for the past days and rarely left, taking her meals in the room and keeping watch with the intensity of a loyal hound. Madeleine struggled to stay with her for more than a few hours at a stretch – the silence was deafening, Cosette’s sniffles and coughs ringing loud in his ears.

“They were separated for so very long,” Madeleine said. “And influenza is a horrible thing. I suppose it is no wonder that she is worried.”

“I feel rather ineffectual.”

“As do I.”

“Although she was awake a few hours this morning.” Laying her hand on top of his, Sophia smiled, a cautious expression, as though it would curse them if she dared hope too much. “And more lucid than I expected.”

“It is your food which keeps her strong, and your doctor that visits. I owe you a great debt of thanks. Perhaps I will even attend a party,” Madeleine chuckled.

“Chance would be a fine thing.” A breeze passed over them, and Sophia shivered. “You owe me nothing. If anything, I am in your debt for ever letting me know them. You cannot imagine how lonely I was. None of the rich women care for me terribly much. They enjoy my parties, and will happily drain my wine, but I fancy that they find me boring. Fantine is a wonderful companion. She cares to learn. And Cosette is the child I wish I could have.”

“If you were to say that to Fantine she might laugh,” Madeleine said. “You are as an aunt to her. Or a mother, even. She is not my daughter, but I feel as though she may as well be. Blood is irrelevant. We are family.”

There was a long silence. When he turned, Madeleine found that Sophia was staring at him with her usual curiosity.

“You may not have the brains for philosophy,” she said. “But you have the heart of a king.”

He had no response to that.

*

As such, Madeleine spent a week in one of the manor rooms, traveling for meetings, sitting at Cosette’s side when Fantine was too tired to continue. Often the unfamiliar comfort of his bed would drive him to waking unnaturally early; on the occasion that he startled awake, he would take up a candle and spend an hour padding through the floors of the house. To his relief, he experienced none of the nightmares that plagued him from time to time. Such dreams were loud, and would certainly be cause for concern should he start shouting in the middle of the night.

His capable secretary kept the factory in hand. When Madeleine visited Montreuil, it was to speak with builders, disgruntled businessmen. Javert visited Cosette only once. So it was in those meetings that he and Javert were together, and looked at one another, and Madeleine suffered his feelings in silence.

Perhaps Madeleine would not have noticed before, but Javert looked tired. Lines of stress were forming around his eyes. The policeman was not young, yet it aged him somewhat, and Madeleine wished for nothing more than to take the man into his home and to sit together, relax, to hold his hand and rest his head upon Javert’s sloped shoulder. And there his wishes stalled.

*

When Madeleine walked into the room early that Monday, Cosette was sitting upright in her bed. While her sweet face was peaky, and her eyes overbright, she was smiling a little. Fantine was asleep in her seat.

“Sh,” Cosette hushed, and gestured to her mother. “I think maman is tired.”

“I think you are right,” Madeleine chuckled. To the girl’s amazement, he picked up Fantine with ease and carried her, hunched against his chest, out to her room, where he laid her out in her own bed and covered her with a blanket. Muttering something incoherent, Fantine rolled onto her side and nestled fully into her pillow.

“Sleep well.” Madeleine pressed a kiss to her hair, and returned to Cosette.

Without needing to be prompted, he picked up the book that they had been working through over the passing days and opened it, sitting on the coverlet. “Do you remember which fable we last read?”

“The ant and the grasshopper.” Plumping up her cushions behind her, Cosette leaned in with eagerness. “And before that, the dog and his shadow.”

“You have a good memory. And now, the lion and the mouse.” Clearing his throat, Madeleine settled in to read.

_“Once when a Lion was asleep a little Mouse began running up and down upon him; this soon wakened the Lion, who placed his huge paw upon him, and opened his big jaws to swallow him._

_‘Pardon, O King,’ cried the little Mouse: ‘forgive me this time, I shall never forget it: who knows but what I may be able to do you a turn some of these days?’”_

To have Cosette’s whole attention was always overwhelming for Madeleine; he struggled to suppress a smile at her enraptured stare. There was something about having the adoration of a child which was incomparable to all else.

_“The Lion was so tickled at the idea of the Mouse being able to help him, that he lifted up his paw and let him go. Some time after the Lion was caught in a trap, and the hunters who desired to carry him alive to the King, tied him to a tree while they went in search of a wagon to carry him on.”_

“They must have been very strong hunters to catch a lion,” Cosette interrupted.

_“Just then the little Mouse happened to pass by, and seeing the sad plight in which the Lion was, went up to him and soon gnawed away the ropes that bound the King of the Beasts._

_"Was I not right?" said the little Mouse.”_

“So the little mouse proved a powerful friend.” Cosette nodded in approval. “Yes, I like that one. Perhaps I am the mouse, and you the lion, papa.”

“Because I am so big and strong?” Madeleine asked, and he laughed. “Well, I often feel like the mouse. Although I do not doubt you a very important friend of mine.”

“When I am better, maybe. The doctor says I am much improved.”

Certainly that. Madeleine had at no point thought the disease would prove fatal – God would not rip away the life of the child so soon after being saved – and still he was relieved. It was time to return home.

*

Arriving at the Mairie as late as he was, Madeleine was surprised to find a light still shining from somewhere inside, a single beacon of productivity. Pushing his way through the double doors, he found it came from the direction of his own office, specifically the desk that his secretary worked at, a single gas lamp suffusing its strange scent and flickering yellow.

With something approaching guilt, he made his way over to the desk, and bowed shallowly. His secretary startled, and pushed his glasses up his nose. “Good evening, Monsieur le maire. I was not expecting you.”

“Good evening… I was not expecting you, either. It is very late, Henri. Do you not wish to go home?”

“The finances for the men’s half of the factory needed checking. And I fixed the issue with Marietta and her wages. And, before you apologise,” Henri lifted a hand preemptively. “The factory has scarcely been a problem. Your foremen have been running things tightly in your absence. I am here because I want to be.”

At being so easily read, Madeleine huffed. “If you insist. In any case, I am only here to sign off on some of the building work. I believe I left a fair stack of letters with you the other day?”

Henri blinked. “Oh, that? You didn’t tell Monsieur l’inspecteur to do it? Because he completed the paperwork just this morning.”

“… All of it?” Shuffling through the stack of papers, Madeleine found Javert’s neatest hand inking out agreements, providing suggestions, signing off on plans and expenses. “My goodness. All of it.”

Tracking the shape of Javert’s messy signature with his thumb, Madeleine fancied that he could hear the scratch of the pen against paper, trace the line of Javert’s furrowed brow as he read. In its way, it was a gesture far more intimate than touch. His secretary was speaking but he caught only fragments that he could not parse. He wondered if there was some secret hidden within the curl of the _J,_ the key to understanding, a way to foretell the events that he could feel arising in the air about them.

“Do you want to change anything?” Henri asked.

“Not a word,” Madeleine replied, and let the papers fall back into line.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> only a week late this time  
> fanks for reading kids
> 
> can you believe - montreuil's partner city is slough. it just makes me giggle. and if u can find the accidental yet blatant innuendo in this chapter... blame my girlfriend for pointing it out


	12. upd8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an apology, kinda?

hey!! sorry that this isn't a chapter, i know i always hate getting an update email only to find out its One Of These, but i didn't want to leave this hanging forever. so. 

i dunno if this is ever gonna get finished to be honest. i wrote OYM at what was probably... the worst time of my life, period. but I'm okay now!!!!! i'm probably better than i have ever been. life is being good to me and i finally feel like myself. but i can't really get into the headspace of the person that i was half a year ago. les mis was a real help to me and i appreciate it very much, but i've moved on and circumstances have changed. maybe i'll finish this one day, but it's unlikely. 

I guess to prevent anyone being left wondering - yes, Valjean and Javert were going to end up together eventually. Javert was going to confess his admiration (literally next chapter whoops) and they awkwardly dance around it until Madeleine is injured and Javert uncovers his scars. heartbroken, Javert has a seine moment on the walls of the town and an inner battle between his love and his duty, but Valjean calls him down and they part, Javert headed for a new placement in Paris. Valjean is... understandably heartbroken. Fantine breaks him out of his depression by being generally the best and he confesses all to her. They decide to take Cosette to see Paris - she needs to see the world a bit - and while Javert is angry at first he admits to being lost, and he and Valjean take up correspondence. Via letters they come to understand each other and after several years of writing, the wounds are enough healed that Javert takes a holiday to Montreuil and they finally start a relationship. It kinda follows a Brick pattern from there. Valjean gives up his post of mayor and moves to Paris as Madeleine, capable of living a fairly open life in high society. Marius is Marius. Fantine and Sophia share rooms at Rue Plumet. Everyone lives and nothing hurts (except the ABC i guess but yknow)

And for good measure, here's my favourite scene, from Javert's holiday to Montreuil. Thank you all for reading and being so supportive! It helped me get through a hell of a lot <3 <3

*

“Jean, where are you taking me?”

Amber sunset was cresting over the fields, bathing the land outside of Montreuil in a dappled firelight. The air was balmy and warm as they scaled a small hill, Madeleine holding a basket in the crook of one arm, Javert’s hand resting in the crook of the other. Gymont whinnied quietly from where they had tethered him to a fencepost some way below.

“You shall see,” Valjean replied cryptically, and grinned. “I think you will like it.”

In short minutes they had crested the highest point of the hill and reached a flat embankment where a single tree stood, solitary against the sky. From their location one could see the clouds all underscored with bright coral and gold linings; alongside the sweetness of the air it seemed as though some portion of earth had come to touch heaven.

Valjean rested one hand against the tree and smiled. Then he opened his basket and pulled out a blanket, which he flattened against the grass, and sat upon it. “Care to join me?” he said. “If you are not too busy looking at the skies.”

Javert had come to an absolute stop. Even his features were softened in the haze, enraptured as they were.

“Javert?”

“Yes. Sorry.” He turned and raked one hand through his hair distractedly. “Well, I suppose you would know of a place such as this.”

“You like it?” Valjean asked, half-submerged in his basket as he pulled out wrapped portions of salted fish, breads and cheese, a tart for dessert. “I come here from time to time, for the sake of reflection.”

Lowering himself with some grace, Javert pressed a kiss to Valjean’s forehead and sat, shedding his summer coat. When Valjean raised his eyebrow, Javert said, “I doubt anyone shall find us out here,” and divested Valjean of his own coat.

“How scandalous,” Valjean gasped, and snickered. “Have whatever food you want – I brought some port also, if the glasses survived the trip.”

“You are spoiling me.” Javert immediately began to pick over the food, and chose the fish. “They will offer me dinner at the prefecture and I shall turn my nose up at it.”

“Surely the food there is good?”

“Not as good as it is fresh from the country,” Javert hummed. “Have we any fruit?”

Thankfully the glasses were not damaged, and they sat together and ate, Valjean propped up on his elbows, Javert cross-legged when he was not lying flat against the grass. On occasion one or the other of them would interrupt the flow of conversation by leaning over to kiss, and the frequency of this only increased as the port bottle began to empty. The tart went half-forgotten until Valjean peered into the basket and let out a cry of surprised delight.

“You really are a fool. How did you forget your own dessert?” Javert picked a piece of grass and let it twine between his fingers.

“Port is… heady,” Valjean mumbled, and defensively took a slice. “I didn’t make it. Fantine did.”

They managed to eat half before declaring that it was too much, and packed the rest of the food away, save for the bottle. By now they were both verging on inebriated; Javert had to refuse more drink so that he would be halfway capable of directing his horse.

The sun ducked down low beneath the horizon. Darkness gathered over them, air cooling by iotas, sunlight maturing to a flush red. Javert leant over Valjean and smoothed the licks of silver curls that framed his face, before ducking down and kissing him gently.

“Is this not paradise?” Valjean asked against Javert’s mouth.

“Heaven could not compare to this moment.”

“That’s blasphemous.” Any further admonishments were lost in a deeper touch, pressed on by the drink, until they were twined together in the dusk.

They remained there for some time.


End file.
